


afraid nothing can save me (but the sound of your voice)

by steveandbucky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Depression, M/M, PTSD, Pining, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recreational Drug Use, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveandbucky/pseuds/steveandbucky
Summary: But he knows better than to willingly admit that he’d been writing letters to his best friend, who he assumed was dead, andstillkept writing while looking for him all over Europe, or even after Bucky had let Steve bring him home. Or the fact that he was utterly and completely in love with said best friend, and he had to live with the knowledge that his feelings would never be reciprocated.





	afraid nothing can save me (but the sound of your voice)

**_JUNE 2012_ **

It’s well past midnight, on a terribly humid night in late June, and sleep is near impossible. It’s not the heat so much as the fact that his mind won’t stay still. He’d closed the window, and turned on the A/C, fumbling with the tiny remote control for a half hour until he got it set to an appropriate temperature, and on the quietest setting. The noise helped with falling asleep, but he’d woken mere hours later, terror in his throat and a shiver he couldn’t shake off. So he turned off the damn thing, opened his window and climbed on the fire escape. 

He and Bucky would spend hours hanging out on the fire escape, Steve thinks.

The apartment they’ve set him up in is maybe thrice the size of his childhood home. The furnishings and decorations are simple, and, as it were, vintage. There’s an old radio and a phonogram. They wanted to ease over his transition, Fury said. He even got the daily paper delivered to his door. 

But there was also a cutting edge personal computer, which, when closed, looked more like a thin, silver book. He was given a smartphone and a touch screen tablet. Steve’s head had begun to spin, trying to take it all in.

He wishes Bucky was there.

So he reaches out for the little notepad he’d taken to write things in, suggestions people offered, unprompted. He flips to a page at the back and scribbles down, _"I wish you were here.”_

That’s how it starts, and soon becomes a habit, and maybe an unhealthy one. He can’t imagine it’s what normal people do - writing letters to your dead best friend. But he finds that the sharp pain in his chest that makes him wish he’d have stayed frozen in the Arctic, eases off, just a tiny bit.

On what would’ve been his 94th birthday, Steve watches the fireworks from the windows of his living room, on his own. He doesn’t have anyone to celebrate with. His friends are dead and gone. The only one still alive would be with her family, Steve assumes, her children and grandchildren. There’s that sharp pain again, followed by guilt. _You don’t get to be bitter_ , he chastises himself, _not about this._

Peggy had shown him some pictures - her wedding day, portraits of her children, and then the ones in colour, of her grandchildren. It brought him to tears, and he couldn’t separate his joy from his sorrow. He read about her accomplishments with SHIELD, and he was in awe. In another lifetime-

She’d lived her life, full and happy. Now it was time for Steve to live his own, though he wasn’t sure what that meant for him now.

And so, he starts writing. 

_July 10, 2012: I miss you so much some days I can hardly breathe_. 

_August 17, 2012: I went to that bakery my mom took us for my birthday that one year, remember the one? It was called Argo’s._ _1_ _It’s still open. I had a slice of apple pie, and it was like I remember it. I didn’t go looking for it, by the way, I found their website by chance on Wikipedia. I’ve been doing some reading. Trying to cram 70 years of history in as little time as possible. They want me to join SHIELD, but only when I’m absolutely ready to, whatever that means._

_August 23, 2012: bananas taste different now. you’d hate them, I think_

_September 5, 2012: There’s no flying cars, but there’s robot hoovers that clean your house. I think I’m disappointed._

_September 18, 2012: Two weeks after I woke up, they had me back in my old suit - well, not exactly. Agent Coulson made some modifications. I didn’t like it, to be honest, but, Buck - we were fighting an army of aliens. Goddamn aliens. Can you believe that? They looked like a bunch of weird robots. I kept thinking, the whole time, you’d have loved it. You’d have rubbed it in, told me how you were right. I wish you’d been there, watching my six._

_October 1, 2012: I’m watching Clint’s dog while he’s on a mission. It’s a bit weird he trusts me to watch his dog - I feel like I hardly know the guy. She’s really terrific though. I remember that time we brought home a stray and begged your mom to let us keep it. What did we name that dog? Eliot? I wonder what happened to him, the poor thing._

_October 3, 2012: I keep thinking, what if I’d caught you? What if you’d survived the war? You’d be grey and old now, like Peggy, with photo album after photo album of memories. You’d have made a family, married a nice girl, you’d have a couple of kids running around. Truth is, maybe I’d be there right next to you in the nursing home. Maybe I’d have tried to find a way out of the ocean. Hell, maybe you’d have been on the Valkyrie, right next to me. You’d get us out of there, I’m sure, and we’d live our lives_ ~~_the way we were supposed to._ ~~

_October 15, 2012: I joined SHIELD. I wonder what you’d tell me, if you were here. You think I’m doing the right thing here, Buck?_

_October 28, 2012: A woman asked me out today. It took me by surprise. I guess I’m still not used to the attention. I know you’d tell me to go for it, take her dancing, show her a good time… well, I said yes. We’re going to watch a movie. But to be honest, my heart’s not in it._

_November 1, 2012: I miss you so much_

_November 4, 2012: Things didn’t work out with that girl. And you know what? It didn’t make me sad. It didn’t matter at all._

_November 12, 2012: The food in the future is weird. Better, mostly. There’s so much variety. Grocery shopping is overwhelming. I spent $100 at the supermarket last week. Can you believe that! $100! Romanoff gave me a cookbook called "101 recipes for novice cooks", so I’ve been busy learning new recipes. I think I’m doing okay. I made spaghetti and meatballs and it was good. I wonder if you’d have liked it._

_November 16, 2012: I have a record player in my apartment, and stacks of records, mostly of songs I’d never heard before, but there were some in there I remember, from the clubs you’d drag me to. You’d take me dancing, if you were here, I’m sure. maybe I’ll go on my own._

_November 19, 2012: So maybe that was a bad idea. Clubs are very different now. God, there’s so much I want to tell you, Buck._

_December 4, 2012: I moved to DC. I bet you’d never have guessed I’d leave New York, right? I know. But SHIELD keeps me busy, and I’m closer to the headquarters, this way._

_December 25, 2012: Merry Christmas, Bucky._

_January 4, 2013: I hate winter. I hate the cold, the snow, all of it._

_January 19, 2013: I hate myself for letting you fall._

_February 7, 2013: I went to the Smithsonian. They had footage of us, in the war. I can’t even remember what we were saying, in the video, but the way you laughed made my heart cry. I wish I could make you laugh like that, again._

_March 8, 2013: It’s international Women’s Day. I bought flowers, and went to see Peggy. She didn’t know who I was, at first. Her daughter was there, and reminded her. It felt it like a punch in the gut._

_May 22, 2013: I’ve been busy. I go to the gym a lot, and I run in the mornings. There’s always a mission to lead. It’s not so bad, I guess._

_June 15, 2013: There’s parades all around the world. You’d never believe what they’re celebrating, Buck. Natasha told me you’re not supposed to say queer anymore, unless you are queer. I almost told her then. But I looked it up. Some people still use it, but it’s not an insult anymore. It’s so weird, Buck, but so wonderful. I never thought it would be possible. There’s all sorts of flags, for men who like men, and women who like women, and people who like both men and women. I found studies done by scientists, and none of them talk about a sickness. All year, I’ve been seeing men walking down the street holding hands with their fellas, and women, too. The 21st century is great sometimes, you know._

_June 22, 2013: I realised it’s been a year since I started writing you. I wish you would write me back._

_June 29, 2013: I feel like I’m drunk. Alcohol doesn’t work anymore, but I read about this on the internet. I wasn’t sure it’d work, but I think it did._ _2_ _Did people smoke this stuff, back in our day? Probably. Why didn’t we? My head feels lighter. It’s weird. I’m thinking about the good days, before the war, before everything changed. We were just a couple of kids, Buck. We had no idea, did we? We talked about saving up to go to the Grand Canyon. I’m thinking about you, and I’m smiling. It’s strange._

_July 2, 2013: I rented a cabin in the woods. I didn’t want to be in the city for the fourth. Remember when I had you believing they were lighting the fireworks specially for me? How old were we then? I can’t remember. I’m getting senile, in my old age._

_July 8, 2013: There’s Captain America trading cards. There’s Captain America everything, even underwear. Underwear! This world is crazy, Buck_

_July 21, 2013: I bought another notepad, to keep writing you. I’ve gone mad, I know._

_August 5, 2013: I went on another date. It was awkward. I’m awkward, I’ve always been awkward, even in this new body. I think I’m done with dating for a while._

_September 13, 2013: I dreamt of you last night. We were eating ice cream at Coney Island, then we were in that bar in London. You kissed me, and then I woke up._

_September 16, 2013: I’m high again. It feels good. I feel free, which is weird, because I am free, every second of every day. I’m free to do whatever I want, right? But I feel trapped. I miss you. I’m a horrible, selfish man, because I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, but God, Buck, I wish you were here._

_September 29, 2013: I went to see Peggy again. She asked about you. I didn’t know what to say._

_October 6, 2013: I don’t know why I keep writing you. Maybe you can see me, from above, but I stopped believing in heaven a long time ago._

_April 26, 2014: I’m sorry I didn’t jump after you._

_April 28, 2014: I know why you ran, but why did you run without me? I said I’m with you ’till the end of the line, didn’t I? I wish I’d have been awake. I’d come with you. We could run and never look back._

_June 4, 2014: I keep thinking I see you in the crowd, and now it doesn’t seem that crazy, because there’s a chance that could be you. It never is. It never hurts any less._

_June 10, 2014: I dreamt about you again last night. I saw you fall and I couldn’t catch you again. I’m so sorry, Bucky._

_July 18, 2014: Come home. Please, come home._

_July 30, 2014: I know you remember me. I saw it in your eyes. I know you pulled me from the river. Where the hell are you, Bucky._

_September 3, 2014: I’ll never ask for anything else till the day I die, I promise you this. This is enough. This is more than enough. This is everything I could ever want._

_September 23, 2014: You smiled for the first time today._

_October 20, 2014: You’d hate me if you knew. I hate myself for feeling this way, because I read your file, and I know what you went through, all those years. Yet I can’t help but feel happy when I come home and you’re there. What kind of man does that make me? I’m the most selfish man alive, because I’m happy you’re here with me._

_October 22, 2014: I should have jumped. I’m sorry I didn’t jump. I’m sorry I didn’t look for you. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were alive. I’m sorry I’d been awake for two whole goddamn years before I knew you were alive. I wish I could tell you these things._

_November 5, 2014: There were two men at the coffee shop, waiting in line in front of me. They were holding hands. I wished that were us. I hate that I wished it._

_December 25, 2014: I sobbed into my pillow this morning, so you wouldn’t hear. It’s Christmas, and you’re home. It feels like a goddamn miracle._

_February 10, 2014: I promised I wouldn’t ask for anything else, and I won’t, not ever. But I can’t help these thoughts, so I’ll say it on paper only: I love you, Bucky. I have always loved you._

* * *

**_JUNE 2015_ **

Steve had met, and rejected, four highly educated psychologists, all of whom came with the recommendation of Sam Wilson, who Steve trusted with his life. The background checks cleared, and the referencing checked out, too, but upon meeting them, Steve decided he didn’t like them.

The process started shortly after they’d returned from chasing after Bucky all over Europe, where Sam had stayed up with him for countless nights, listening to Steve’s stories, of him and Bucky before the war. One morning, while they were waiting for their coffee order in a small cafe in Brno, Sam had suggested to him, once again, of giving group therapy a try. Steve had replied the way he usually did, but this time, Sam had been insisting. 

"We’ll find you a professional once we get back. I’ll ask my buddy at the VA in New York, alright?"

Steve agreed to it, though he was still reluctant. By the time he found Bucky and brought him home, though, he’d warmed up to the idea. The only thing left was to find someone trustworthy, which is how Steve found himself with folder upon folder, detailing the work and experience of the best experts in psychotherapy in the tri-state area.

“This is the last one, I swear to God, Rogers,” Sam says as he slides the folder across the table to Steve. 

Steve picks up the folder and opens it, reading the name on the first page: Dr Annie Nazarian, PhD. 

“Thanks, Sam,”

“Thank me by getting me another coffee,” Sam says, drinking the last of his cappuccino. 

“Sure,” Steve smiles, and heads to the counter. 

He reads the file later at his apartment, and the next day, calls to make an appointment to meet her. Her practice is in Manhattan, but she’s happy to meet him in a more neutral setting, so Steve gives her the address of his favourite coffee shop, and they agree on a time and date. 

“I have to tell you, I would never have imagined I’d be treating someone I read about in my history books,” she tells him over coffee. “How about I tell you a little bit about myself, to level the playing field?”

Steve decides he likes her right there and then. She tells him about her family, and how she moved to New York from California to study at NYU, fell in love with the city and decided to stay there permanently. Steve then tells her about a musical he’d seen recently, and she asks if he’d recommend it, and somehow the conversation moves to movies and TV shows, and before he knows it, the hour’s flown by. 

When they get up to leave the cafe, Dr Nazarian tells him she’s happy to have met him, and he should take his time to think things through, and he can call her office if he wants to make an appointment. 

Steve walks home with his hands tucked in his jean’s pockets. He feels...lighter. It's not a feeling he's familiar with, but he doesn't dwell on it too much. Maybe it just means he's doing something right, for once.

He walks past the donut shop round the corner from their apartment, then spins around and walks back and goes inside. He buys eight different types, and a box of chocolate-filled mini donuts, plus two extra large milkshakes.

When he opens the door, he calls out, “Buck, I’m home!”

“In the living room,” Bucky calls back, though not as loudly. 

Steve finds him curled up on the couch with a book in his hands, and a soft throw around his shoulders, the _Troubleman_ soundtrack is playing on the wireless Bluetooth speaker. They're used to having air conditioning on in the summer, especially when there's a particularly bad heatwave, but it gets cool enough inside their apartment to warrant long sleeved tees and blankets.

“How did it go?” Bucky asks him as soon as Steve steps in the room, without looking up from his book. 

“Good,” Steve puts down the boxes on the coffee table. He shrugs off his jacket and kicks off his shoes, leaving them strewn about. “I brought donuts and milkshakes.”

Bucky reaches for one of the cups, takes a sip and nestles in his corner again. “Perfect. Thanks.”

Steve grabs the box of mini donuts and takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, stretching out his legs so he’s poking Bucky with his feet. 

Bucky tries to kick him back with one of his feet, but struggles to quite reach him, given that he’s sitting with his legs tucked under him, and balancing a book in one hand and a drink in the other. Steve grins, and pokes him again. 

Bucky shoots him a sharp look, though there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Quit it.”

Steve grins at him. “What are you reading?”

“ _21 Lessons for the 21st Century_ ,” Bucky says. He tucks his bookmark between the pages he was reading, and places the book on the coffee table, instead reaching for a raspberry-jam filled donut, and grabs the other cup, handing it to Steve. 

Their fingers brush while the cup changes hands and Steve’s heart flutters at the touch. It’s silly. Not two nights ago, Bucky was sleeping next to him in bed, arm thrown nonchalantly around Steve’s middle. 

Steve sighs as he takes a sip of the deliciously rich chocolate milkshake. He puts a pillow between his back and the armrest he’s leaning against and settles into a comfortable position, where he can still drink without spilling all over himself.

“How did it go?” Bucky asks once again, when he’s finished eating, licking jam off his thumb and forefinger. 

Steve lets his gaze linger, then looks away, cheeks flushing. “Good.” he answers.

“Did you like her?”

“Yeah. She seems nice.”

Bucky looks at him. “Do you want me to meet her? You’re not the best judge of character.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Steve says. “And I’m a great judge of character, thank you very much.”

Without missing a beat, Bucky says, “Then how do you explain your new best friend, Sam Wilson?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s not fair when he’s not here to retaliate, you know.”

“You mean it’s not as entertaining for you.” Bucky grins at him. 

Steve rolls his eyes again and takes a sip from his drink, and when he’s done with it, he sinks further into the comfy couch. He lays there, listening to the mellow notes of the music playing on the Bluetooth speaker, and watches Bucky scarf down another donut and then one more, before picking up his book again.

Steve lets out a breath and closes his eyes. He’s content. 

~~

“Today’s session will be about two hours,” Dr Nazarian tells him. “I might ask some questions to help me better understand what you’re struggling with, and how I can best help you. Is that okay?”

Steve is fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, in an effort to keep his hands busy. He wishes for a distraction - a sketchpad and a pencil, maybe. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out, and nods in response. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Dr Nazarian speaks in a soft, gentle tone of voice, like one might use with a child, but it’s the furthest thing from patronising. She has a clipboard in her lap that she scribbles notes on from time to time. She pushes her black-rimmed square glasses back with her forefinger from time to time. There’s no ring on her finger. She’s wearing black shoes with a short heel. 

“Steve?”

Steve snaps his gaze to her, belatedly realising he’d let his focus wander. “Sorry,” he mumbles, an unpleasant flash of heat running through his body. “What were you saying?”

She smiles. “Would you like some Play-Doh?” she asks, and upon seeing the confused look on Steve’s face, elaborates, “A lot of people find that having something to keep your hands busy helps with staying focused.”

“Right,” Steve nods. “No, that’s fine. Sorry. I’m okay - I’m focused. What was your question?”

“Okay,” she pauses for a moment and readjusts in her seat. “Have you been to therapy before?”

Steve takes a moment to think about how to answer, then comes up with, “Yes and no? I saw a therapist for a while when I first came out of the ice. Not out of choice, obviously. This sort of thing - it was unheard of back in the day.” he breaths a quiet laugh, and looks down at his fidgety hands, unable to keep still. Maybe he should’ve said yes to the Play-Doh. 

“And how was that? Do you think it helped at all?”

Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t like her. She was...She was asking questions I didn’t wanna answer. But I went along with it, and she cleared me for duty, and that was it. Two years later, when we brought down HYDRA, I looked her up again.” he says, a bitter smile on his lips. “Her name came up in the list of known HYDRA associates.”

Dr. Nazarian’s eyebrows shoot up, her pen stilling on the paper. “I’m starting to understand where the trust issues come from.”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs softly. “Well, can you blame me?”

“Of course not.” she smiles. “I’m just saying, it explains the extensive background check and referencing process. I don’t think I’m supposed to know this,” she says, lowering her tone an octave. “But I’m fairly certain I was followed for the better part of a month.”

“Oh.” Steve’s eyes widen. “That’s- um-”

“A tad excessive, in my opinion.” She raises a teasing eyebrow at him.

“Well-” Steve flounders, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to think of the right words, but she gives him an out.

“No need to explain, really. I understand. You wanted to make sure you can trust someone, before you divulge all of your personal information.”

Steve sighs. “It’s not exactly like that. I trust people, but when people have agendas... I met with several of your colleagues and I didn’t feel like I could trust them. I mean, one of them said something about doing a case study, whatever that means.

Dr Nazarian grimaces. “Who was that?”

“Uh,” Steve’s eyes travel upwards and to the left. “Dr Henriksen, I believe.”

“Oh yeah, he’s a fool. You dodged a bullet.” She grins good-naturedly.

Steve grins back. “Yeah, he seemed sketchy. Anyway, that’s my experience with psychologists, basically.”

Dr Nazarian looks at him, and all Steve can see is kindness and understanding in her dark brown eyes. “Tell me why you are here, today, then. What made you decide to give this another try?”

Steve looks down at his hands again. “I’m not sure why I’m here, to be honest. I mean, I read a bit about what my friend does at the VA - the group therapy for veterans. He offered me a place, if I wanted to go, but…” he shrugs. 

“A lot of people struggle with the idea of group therapy - being vulnerable in front of so many strangers all at once is not an easy thing to do.”

Steve nods. “I guess I’d rather-” he pauses, and thinks of how to phrase it. “I think, I realised that talking might actually help, but I would prefer to talk to someone privately. One on one.”

“Well you trust me enough to be here, and you’re actually _talking_.” Dr Nazarian says. “It’s as good a start as any.”

Steve smiles, genuinely amused. He likes her sense of humour. “I don’t _know_ where to start. I don’t know...” he trails off and sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. 

“Why don’t you give me a bit of a background?” she asks placing her clipboard and pen on the table between herself and her patient. “Tell me what happened after you stopped seeing your previous therapist.”

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Well, she cleared me for duty, and I started working for SHIELD. They gave me a new place in D.C., so I moved there. They gave me missions to lead, and I did that. Tried to catch up with...everything that I’d slept through during my very long nap. Made some new friends.” he shrugs. 

There isn’t really very much to say. That sums up his life in Washington D.C. for the two years he spent there. Everything after that - well, it’s a little more complicated.

But he knows better than to willingly admit that he’d been writing letters to his best friend, who he assumed was dead, and _still_ kept writing while looking for him all over Europe, or even after Bucky had let Steve bring him home. Or the fact that he was utterly and completely in love with said best friend, and he had to live with the knowledge that his feelings would never be reciprocated.

“What did you struggle with the most?” Dr Nazarian asks suddenly.

Steve freezes, his entire body tensing up immediately, a panicked, irrational part of his brain thinking the doctor had heard his internal thoughts. 

When he doesn’t answer, she elaborates. “I mean, so much must be different than what you were used to. I imagine readjusting to life in the 21st century must’ve been difficult.”

“Yes,” he manages to say finally. _She’s a psychologist, not a goddamn psychic, you moron._ Steve exhales a long breath, and the tension alleviates somewhat.

“So it was difficult?”

“It was.”

Dr. Nazarian is watching him intently. It’s unnerving, and he has to look away.

“What about now, in the present? Are you still struggling to adapt?”

“No.” Steve says honestly. “It’s been over three years. I think I’m doing okay. My teammates only make old people jokes at my expense about once a month, now.”

She clicks her tongue. “That’s ageism, and you should call them out for it.”

Steve laughs, the sound startled out of him, and he looks at her to see her trying to hide a smile, evidently pleased with herself for making Captain America laugh. 

“You can tell me if I’m being too pushy,” she says a moment later. “But I’d really like to find out more about what you’re currently struggling with. Could you give me one example?”

Steve nods. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it again. 

“I know it’s hard. You can take your time.”

He nods again. Inwardly, he’s cringing at himself. He said he was gonna do this, but now that he’s here, it’s so much harder than he imagined. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard to open your mouth and talk. 

“I think I have…” he starts saying, and chokes up on the word _changed_. It feels like the most obvious statement. Of course he’s fucking changed. 

He tries again. “Before the war, I was a different person, and I think, it wasn’t just physical. Like the war affected me. The ice.” Steve says finally. His heart starts racing in his chest, and he balls his hand into a fist, and closes over it with his palm. “I thought I was going to die, when I went under. Then they pulled me out and left me hanging. Everyone I knew was dead. The world had moved on and I was like a walking relic.”

He pauses and draws in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to talk about this.”

“It’s okay,” Dr Nazarian says, voice soft. 

“I was angry. I was really fucking angry. I don’t know if I ever said that. I guess people would think I was sad, right? I think that’s how people saw me. I don’t know. But I was angry, too. I couldn’t sleep, most nights. When I slept, I had nightmares, and it was worse than being awake. For the longest time, I was ready to-”

Steve looks up momentarily, daring to meet the doctor’s gaze for a moment. She looks sympathetic. He hates it.

“I was ready to die,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if it’s because I _wanted_ to die, or maybe I thought I was living on borrowed time, and my number would be up pretty soon, you know? I wouldn’t be sad. No one else would be sad. They mourned me once, they could mourn me again.”

He chances another glance, and sees the expression on her face has changed; she is watching him with her eyebrows drawn together, looking almost thoughtful. She waits for him to continue, but when it’s clear Steve has finished saying what he wanted to, she speaks again.

“Do you still feel that way?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not really, no. Like I said, I’ve adjusted, mostly. I have friends that are like family to me now. That helps. Plus, I’ve got Bucky.”

“Bucky is…?”

“James Barnes. My friend,” Steve says, and ignores the bittersweet taste it leaves in his mouth. “From before. You may have heard of him on the news by his alias, Winter Soldier.”

“Right.” She nods, catching on. “So, you knew him before you went in the ice?”

“Before everything,” Steve looks down at his hands again. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember.”

Dr Nazarian nods and writes down more notes. “And you two are close?”

“Yeah. He’s my best friend.”

She gives him a small smile. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear you’ve got your friend by your side, and that you’ve made new friends as well. Having a support network is really important.”

Steve must look confused, because she continues to say, “Everybody needs somebody to lean on, when things get rough, right?”

He nods.

“Having strong social support is a protective factor that increases resilience. For example, if something bad happens - like losing your job, or a loved one - having friends and family to support you means you won’t be as affected as someone who doesn’t have people by their side, and you’ll bounce back more quickly.”

“That makes sense,” Steve says. 

“Okay, good,” Dr Nazarian. “Now to be absolutely sure, I need to ask you again. Have you experienced any suicidal thoughts, or wanted to hurt or harm yourself in any way, in the last few weeks?”

“I’m not suicidal,” Steve says, and maybe it sounds harsher than he meant it to. He knows it’s her job to ask, to make sure her patients are first and foremost safe. “Sorry. I mean - I’m fine.”

She gives him a pointed look.

“Okay, maybe not _fine_ , but I’m better. Really. I don’t want to die.”

Hearing it out loud changes something inside him. _I don’t want to die,_ his voice says, and inside, Steve’s surprised to hear it. He hadn’t thought about it, since all he did was keep himself busy - missions, pop culture catch up, exercise, and more recently, finding Bucky and keeping him safe.

“Okay. Do you still have nightmares?”

“Sometimes,” Steve says. 

“How often?” 

“About once a week, I’d say.”

The doctor nods and scribbles more things down. “What about flashbacks?”

Steve thinks back to the nights at the gym and the countless punching bags he’d sent flying across the room. “I used to, in the beginning. It felt like I was right back there in the battlefield.” He closes his eyes, and draws in a deep, shaky breath. Moments later he opens his eyes to see the doctor looking at him intently.

“Did you have one right now?” she asks tentatively. 

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “It’s just - talking about it. Brings up some real shitty memories.”

She nods. “Okay. You seem quite shaken up. Does that happen often? Feelings of fear or worry, heart palpitations, restlessness?”

Steve shifts in his seat, the unease tying his stomach in knots. How is he meant to answer that. 

“Sometimes,” he says, eventually, because it’s neither a yes or a no. 

“Okay. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to complete a couple of questionnaires, after our session. You can do these at home and bring them in next time. How does that sound?”

Steve nods. “Okay.”

“One is the PHQ-9 and the other is the GAD-7. They’re commonly used to measure levels of depression and anxiety over time. It’ll give me a better idea of your current situation.”

“Okay,” he nods again. He feels like a goddamn robot. 

Dr Nazarian puts her clipboard down. “If you’d like to end our session early, we can do that. Would you like that? We can pick up where we left off next week.”

Steve chews on his bottom lip for a moment, considering. His mind feels hazy, like early morning mist covering his vision. He can hardly think. 

“Okay,” he says eventually, voice barely audible. 

“Good,” Dr Nazarian says. “I think we’ve made some progress. I’m really looking forward to our next meeting. Same time, next Friday?”

He nods, and she gives him a little slip with the time and date of the appointment, and prints out the questionnaires and hands them to him. Steve shakes her hand and bids her goodbye, then exits the building, taking the stairs because the elevator seems to be stuck on floor 2.

Out on the street, he orders an Uber with his phone, and looks over the questionnaires while he waits. The questions may as well have been printed in Chinese, he thinks. The words are jumbled up and meshed together, and blinking, Steve realises he’s dizzy. Maybe he needs to eat, or drink some water. 

The Uber driver pulls over on the sidewalk next to him, lowers his window and says, “Mr Steve?”

Steve nods, and quickly gets in the car. He sits in the back seat and leans on the headrest, closing his eyes. 

“Mister, are you okay?” the driver asks him moments later, when they’re stopped at a red light. He has a thick accent, and a moustache that reminds him of Dugan. 

Steve’s stomach churns. He must look like he’s about to throw up, because the driver asks him if he should pull over. Steve nods quickly. “Can you pull over next to a bodega or restaurant or something? I need some water.” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

The driver pulls up next to a fast food chain, and Steve heads inside and orders two bottles of cold water, and downs them both in minutes. It helps the slightest bit. He gets back in the car, and thanks the driver, who starts driving soon after. 

“It’s very hot today,” the driver says, fanning himself as if to demonstrate the point better.

Steve nods. He opens the app on his phone and looks at the driver’s name, so he can thank the man properly at the end of the ride, then closes his eyes and lets the city pass him by until they reach their destination. Steve thanks Shabbir and while he’s racing up the stairs of the townhouse he shares with Bucky, he gives the driver a 5-star rating and a tip, to thank him for his help. 

Once inside, he calls out his usual, “Buck, I’m home!” but his voice doesn’t carry quite as far. 

Bucky appears in the hallway, his hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, the sleeves of his favourite red Henley rolled up. He’s holding a spatula in one hand and his phone in the other. “I was looking up - Steve?” 

Steve must look as horrible as he feels, because in an instant, Bucky is in front of him, his cooking quest forgotten. He places both hands on Steve’s shoulders and grips him tight. 

“Steve!” he demands, louder now, giving him a slight shake. 

“’M okay,” Steve mumbles, even as he feels like collapsing. He tries to smile, but the tremor that takes over his body turns it into a grimace. 

Bucky leads him to the living room and has him sit down on the armchair. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and disappears, only to return moments later with a glass of water. “Here, drink this. Have you eaten?”

Steve drinks the water, although it doesn’t do much, at this point. “Breakfast,” he croaks out.

“Good thing I’ve got dinner ready, then, huh?” Bucky nudges his shoulder playfully, trying for a joke. “Or a late lunch, for you. Didn’t you have that sandwich before you left?”

Steve shakes his head. “Couldn’t eat.”

Bucky nods. “Alright, well, I made chilli con carne with rice, and there’s sour cream, too, if you’d like.” 

“Really?” Steve asks, looking up at him. Bucky shifts on his feet, looking a little flustered. 

“I got bored so I looked up some recipes then went to the shop. You’re welcome, by the way.” He grins and spins on his heel, heading to the kitchen. 

He returns moments later with two bowls and hands one to Steve. It smells delicious, and Steve’s stomach rumbles loudly. 

“Where would I be without you,” Steve mutters under his breath, and it’s not really loud enough for Bucky to catch, but he Bucky hears him anyway.

“Dead in a ditch somewhere,” he responds, and turns on the TV. 

Steve grins as he digs into his food. 

They watch _Jeopardy,_ then put on _The Office_ \- one of Sam’s suggestions - but Steve gets annoyed and turns it off three episodes later. Bucky laughs and pulls up Netflix, scrolling through shows and movies they’ve been meaning to watch before selecting one at random. 

By nighttime, Steve feels better. He’s had two helpings of Bucky’s chilli, and he’s been cuddled up on the couch next to Bucky all afternoon, sharing a tub of ice cream between them and catching up on pop culture. They fall asleep right there on the couch at some point after midnight. 

~~

It’s 3AM, and Steve can’t sleep.

The window’s open, but the air is still as a held breath, and the heat clings to him like a damp, warm cloth. He’s showered twice today already, and he’s seriously considering taking another one, if only for the relief of cold water running down his back.

Steve rubs a hand over his face and gets to his feet. He could go to the 24-hour gym a few blocks down, try to burn off some of the excess energy. It’s even air conditioned. God bless the 21st century. 

He exits his room, opening and closing the door quietly, and wanders around the apartment for a bit, careful not to make too much noise, so as not to wake Bucky. He hadn’t even bothered to put clothes on, only wearing a pair of black boxer briefs, because it’d be too weird to be walking around naked, especially with all the windows and blinds open.

Steve stands in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, and sighs. This is pointless. 

He grabs a book, turns on a lamp, and settles down on the armchair to read. Fifteen minutes later, he puts the book aside and heads back to his bedroom. It’s hard to focus on any such activity, when his brain gets like this.

 _Okay,_ he thinks to himself as he sits on his bed, _you can either light a joint or rub one out._

As if the first option was ever really there. 

Steve lies down and closes his eyes, and the images flood his mind. There’s no shortage of them now, because the Internet is a wonderful thing, filled with the filthiest, most lewd images and videos you could ever imagine. And, if you look long enough, you might even stumble upon some individuals, engaged in such carnal activities, who just happen to slightly resemble the man you’re in love with.

Steve brings a hand to his crotch, placing a palm against his erect dick through his underwear, like a gentle caress. He thinks of that one actor, with his lover’s hand tangled in his long brown hair while he went down on him, and if Steve squinted just that tiny bit, he could see Bucky. When he’d watched that video, his dick had throbbed in response, demanding attention. 

In the present, Steve pushes his underwear down to his ankles, and properly grabs himself in his hand, while his free hand reaches out to his nightstand, blindly feeling around until he finds the bottle of lube. He squirts a tiny bit on the head of his dick, and gasps at the cool sensation. It’s pleasant, and the slick helps the slide of his hand along the shaft and around the head. He closes his eyes again and allows himself the indulgence of picturing his best friend kneeling between his legs, and taking him in his mouth. Bucky’s pink mouth stretched over the head of his dick; his eyes, darkened with lust, peering up at him through his eyelashes.

Steve feels his orgasm nearing and slows down his rhythm to a leisurely stroke. He wants to it to last, to tire himself out. Another picture pops in his head, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat. This is probably his wildest fantasy; one where he gets to be inside Bucky, and fuck him senseless. Gentle, at first, and then picking up the rhythm, thrusting fast and hard until Bucky’s a moaning, writhing mess underneath him. Steve starts jerking himself faster, and with his free hand reaches down to push at the spot just underneath his balls. The move draws a loud moan from his mouth, and Steve bites down on his lip to keep quiet, because soon he’s coming, spilling over his stomach in quick, hot spurts. 

The guilt comes after. 

After his breathing returns to normal, and his heart returns to its steady beat, and he’s cleaned himself up somewhat. It’s a horrible feeling, and it turns his stomach upside down. Steve gets to his feet and grabs his towel, heading to the bathroom to take another cold shower; wash away the shame, and the remnants of his guilty pleasure on his body. 

It’s just as luck would have it, that he runs into Bucky in the hallway, a bowlful of cereal in his hands. 

He shrugs, and says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Steve nods, and hopes the darkness shadows the flush on his cheeks. “I’m gonna, uh, take a shower,” he says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

“Yeah, better do,” Bucky smirks, and Steve’s heart sinks into his stomach.

It wouldn’t be a big deal, really - growing up together, and having lived together for a period, means he’d heard Bucky enjoying a moment by himself, and Bucky had undoubtedly heard him, too. 

But it doesn’t help his guilt at all.

Steve spins on his heel and heads to the bathroom without saying anything that might be incriminating.

~~

“I’m being called away for a mission,” Steve says over breakfast a few days later. 

Bucky taps on the tablet in his hand, scrolling down the webpage he’s on. “Do you want to go?”

Steve sits back in his chair. The question throws him off. “Do you not want me to go? ’Cause I won’t, if-”

“Steve,” Bucky levels him with a look. “I asked if _you_ want to go.”

“Yeah,” Steve clears his throat. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. “You don’t seem too happy about it. What’s the mission?”

“HYDRA base in Eastern Europe.”

“Ah,” Bucky raises his eyebrows slightly. “You gonna ask me to join?”

Steve says, “No,” in a tone that allows no room to question. “Anyway, I won’t be gone long. Two days, maybe three, at most. You’ll be okay, yeah?”

“Is Sam going?”

“Uh, I don’t think so. Why? Do you want me to ask him-”

“Jesus, Steve, when did you turn into my mother?” Bucky teases, a smile curving his mouth. “I was gonna ask him to hang out, if I got bored.”

“Good. You should.” Steve tries for a smile, though it’s strained. He’s definitely not very enthusiastic about leading a mission, especially not one that has him flying to the other side of the planet, but if it brings him one step closer to dismantling all of HYDRA’s operations, then it’ll be worth it.

The mission goes smoothly, more or less. Some fifty rogue HYDRA agents are arrested, and taken for questioning by Interpol. 

Back in New York, Stark throws a party at the Avengers tower, to celebrate their victory, and christen their new residence. Bucky agrees to go after some convincing. Steve tells him, “Sam will be there, too,” and that seems to do the trick. 

Bucky would never admit it out loud, because that would ruin the facade, but Steve knows he is actually fond of Sam, and holds him in high esteem. He knows Sam likes Bucky, too, and trusts him now.

The party’s in full swing by the time they arrive. Steve places his hand on the scanner to activate the elevator, and when prompted for voice authorisation, he says, “Capsicle.”

Bucky frowns at him. Steve shrugs. “Tony thinks he’s hilarious. He’s so much like Howard, it’s uncanny.”

Bucky diverts his gaze to his polished black shoes. He looks incredibly handsome, Steve thinks. He’s styled his hair into a small bun at the nape of his neck, and he’s wearing a pair of black slacks and a dark grey button up. 

“Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence,” Sam says, greeting them with a wide smile, and handing them a glass of whiskey each. 

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve accepts the drink he’s being offered and takes a sip. The liquid burns pleasantly as it makes its way down. Steve takes another long sip.

Sam pulls on his arm then. “Dude, Maria Hill is here,” he says close to his ear.

“Oh, do you like her?” Bucky asks, purposefully louder than usual. 

Sam shoots him a glare. “Could you say that louder, please? I think there’s a guy in a coma two blocks down who didn’t hear you.”

Bucky grins a shit-eating grin. He says, “I’m gonna go introduce myself,” and wanders off to find her, while Sam hisses, “You will do no such thing!” and hurries after him.

Steve watches them, amused, and shakes his head at their childishness. He makes his way round the party, stopping to say hello to his teammates and coworkers, then finds Stark talking with Rhodey and Banner. 

“Nice of you to join us, Cap,” Stark tells him. “I see you brought your boy toy.”

Steve clenches his jaw. “Tony.”

“No it’s fine,” Tony shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Who among us hasn’t been personally responsible for the death of innocent people, am I right?” he gives Steve a friendly, though rather hard, pat on the back, and takes off. 3

Steve’s jaw drops, taken aback by the question. Banner looks away, clearly uncomfortable, while Rhodey rolls his eyes.

“Ignore him,” he tells Steve. “He’s just being pissy because Banner won’t let him experiment with the sceptre.”

Steve looks to Banner for explanation. “It’s a long story,” Banner tells him, and Steve’s not sure if that’s really the truth or he’s wanting to spare Steve the embarrassment of not understanding the complexities of the work they do. 

“Right,” he mutters, shifting uncomfortably. He scans the room, looking for Tony, but instead his eyes land on Bucky and Sam, talking to Maria. “I should probably go find him.”

“Let him be,” Rhodey says, trying to be reassuring. “The last thing he wants is to talk about it. Tony’s like that.”

Steve huffs, and thinks, _Steve’s like that, too._ Was there a clause in the Avengers initiative that required its members to be completely incapable of having emotionally difficult conversations? 

Steve leaves the two men to their conversation, and circles back around to the bar, to talk to Natasha instead, who was busy making drinks for herself and others. She makes him try something called a ’Cosmopolitan’, and Steve nods his approval. 

“It’s good,” he takes another sip. “What else have you got going on?”

“Well,” Natasha smiles, looking pleased with herself. “This is a mojito,” she slides another glass towards him and then grabs the cocktail shaker. “I think I’ll try to make a daiquiri next.”

“Hey, barkeep,” Sam slides up to them then, returning his empty glass. “Can I get a bottle of your strongest beer, and another of your weakest?”

Steve turns to him, frowning quizzically. 

“What?” Sam shrugs. “I can’t keep up with your goddamn super serum tolerance.”

Steve laughs. “That’s fair. Have a mojito. Nat made it.”

“Actually, scratch that,” Sam says. “Can you give me a glass of vodka, and a glass of water that looks like vodka?”

Natasha grins in amusement, and slides her newest cocktail towards him. “Shut up and drink this. If you want, I can teach you how to make it.” she says, her voice taking a sly undertone. “If you wanted to impress someone with your mixology skills, I mean.”

Sam swings his head to shoot Steve a deadly glare. “You told her!”

Steve puts his hands in the air. “I swear to Thor, I didn’t.” he pretends to look at the non-existent watch on his wrist and says, “Oh wow, look at the time,” then grabs his drink and takes off. 

He finds Bucky talking to Thor, and for a moment, Steve hangs back and watches him. Bucky looks in awe, his mouth slightly agape, eyes shining as he listens to whatever story Thor is telling him. 

“...and he went BLERGH IT’S ME, and stabbed me.” Thor concludes, and takes a sip of his flask. “We were eight at the time.”

Bucky turns to him as Steve approaches them, and a soft smile curves his mouth. Steve forgets how to breathe. 

“Thor was telling me about his brother, Loki,” Bucky tells him.

“Oh, right,” Steve nods. He pats Thor’s bicep in what he hopes is a sympathetic gesture. “I was sorry to hear about him.”

“He rests in Valhalla, now,” Thor says, grasping Steve’s shoulder in return. He turns away for a moment, looking for an empty glass, then pours a drink from his flask and passes it to Steve. “Try this, Captain. It’s Asgardian mead.”

“It’s good,” Bucky says, meeting his eye, a small, secretive smile on his face as he takes another sip from his own glass.

The liquid is sweet, and rich, and dizzying. It tastes exactly how he’d imagine the nectar of the Gods would taste like, Steve thinks. He empties his glass in three big sips, and his head suddenly feels lighter.

“Whoa,” Steve says, moments later. “I think this went straight to my head.”

Bucky, next to him, laughs, and the sound is like music to Steve’s ears. “Fucking finally, right? Do you know how many bottles of vodka I went through before I realised it made no difference whatsoever?”

Steve’s mouth curves into a lazy smile. “How many?”

“Two and a half, the first time,” Bucky says. “Another two the next week.”

Absently, Steve realises Thor is pouring him another drink. He says something about having more of it in his apartment, and leaves to go look for it.

“You alright, pal?” Bucky asks him, and there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. 

“’M fine,” Steve mumbles, though it’s far from the truth. “I need to pace myself,” he says, and sets his glass down on the table next to them.

“Yeah, no,” Bucky grabs his arm, stopping him. “Give me that,” 

He grabs Steve’s glass and pours the remaining liquid into his own glass. Steve watches him, blinking in confusion. 

“We’re not to let anyone else drink it,” Bucky explains. “Thor said it is not for ‘mere mortals’. Honestly, how is any of this real?”

Steve nods. “Are _you_ okay?”

Bucky blinks at him. “Steve, I just met a fucking _demigod_ , and he gave me a drink that is _not for mere mortals_. Are you witnessing any of this?”

He is and he isn’t. Steve feels hot, suddenly, like the room is too small and there are too many people in it. He nods but then turns around, heading for the balcony. Outside, he grabs onto the railing, gripping it tightly. He inhales and exhales deeply. 

“Steve?” Bucky’s suddenly next to him, his hand curled around Steve’s arm, and the touch helps ground him. “Hey, what happened? You okay, pal?”

Steve nods. “I’m fine,” he says. “Haven’t been drunk in a long time.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s grip on him loosens. “You want some water? 

“Yes, please,”

Bucky heads back inside and returns with a small bottle of water. After Steve drinks some of it, and his head starts clearing up a bit, Bucky puts his arm around his shoulders and pulls him close.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

They order a car that gets them home in less than fifteen minutes. Once inside, Steve kicks off his shoes and leaves them by the entryway, and Bucky scolds him for it, kicking Steve’s shoes to the side. It makes Steve smile, part mischief and part contentment, because this is their normal, and he fucking loves it.

“What happened back there?” Bucky asks later, when they’ve changed out of their fancy clothes and into comfortable sweatpants, and are sitting site by side on the couch, a blanket draped over them both. 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t like it.”

“The mead?”

“No, I mean - it made my head all…” he trails off, unable to come up with the right word.

“Foggy?” Bucky supplies.

“Yeah. I didn’t like it.”

Bucky nods, and they drop the subject. On their flat screen TV, Sandra Bullock is planning a heist, and they focus on following the plot instead.

~~

“How has your week been?”

Steve exhales. “Can we start with a simpler question?”

Dr Nazarian chuckles quietly. “Okay, that’s fair. I did catch the news about the evil robot threatening humanity and all.”

Steve scoffs.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to, since we last met?”

“I was called on a mission with the team. We raided a HYDRA base in Sokovia, retrieved the sceptre, arrested the agents, and shut down the entire base. Since SHIELD is gone, Interpol kind of took over interrogating the agents. They even took HYDRA’s newest experiments into their custody for questioning. I don’t know what HYDRA did to those kids, but they have some special abilities now, or something.” Steve sighs. “It’s beyond fucked up.”

The doctor nods in understanding. 

“Anyway, yeah, the mission was a success. We had a party to celebrate.” he shrugs. “And then Tony Stark went and created a murderbot. Does that answer your question?”

She regards him with a thoughtful expression. “I’m sensing some anger here.”

Steve has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Of course he’s fucking angry. “A country is in ruins, and it’s our fault.”

Dr Nazarian tilts her head. “When you say “our”, you mean you and your team?”

“Yes.”

She nods, scribbling down her notes. Steve wonders about what she writes. Whatever he’s saying surely can’t be that interesting to warrant such meticulous note-taking. 

“Do you feel personally responsible for this?” she asks him then.

He sighs. “I’m leading this team, aren’t I?”

“Yes. What I meant was, this isn’t something that happened on the battlefield, right? This is something two scientists created in a lab.” She says, her tone cool and even.

Steve frowns. “Yeah, but…” he trails off. “I _am_ angry at Stark. And Banner, to a lesser degree, because it was Stark’s idea in the first place. But innocent people died because of us. Because we couldn’t save them. I can’t just -” Steve exhales harshly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we change the subject?" he asks after a long moment of silence.

“Okay. Can you tell me about the party you mentioned? Was it just you and your teammates?”

“Yeah, more or less. Some other friends and acquaintances,” Steve shrugs. He hadn’t spent more than an hour at the party.

“Okay, I’d like to try something different,” Dr Nazarian says then. “If you’d like, you can tell me anything that comes to mind, and I won’t interrupt with questions. I think it’ll help get you talking. How does that sound?”

Steve blinks in surprise. “Sounds good.” he says, and straightens up in his seat. “Okay, um, I can tell you about the party, I guess. Well, uh, I tried this thing Thor brought with him from Asgard. It was really strong and actually made me a bit dizzy. I can’t get drunk on regular alcohol - my metabolism is too fast. It’s one of the side effects of the serum.” He pauses to think. “I didn’t like it, at first...but I think I’m over it now. I didn’t like being drunk. It made my head all foggy. It wasn’t nice.”

Steve pauses again, and waits for the doctor to ask him a question, for an explanation, but it never comes. Right. No interruptions.

“I’m not sure why. I guess I was a bit nervous. It was the first time Bucky met Thor, and the rest of the team. He knows Sam, and Nat, and they’re okay, but… Well, uh… Anyway. I guess I wasn’t expecting to be drunk. Maybe I wanted to keep a clear head, in case…" Steve trails off. 

He shrugs, and looks down at the red Play-Doh in his hands, absentmindedly twisting and moulding it into different shapes. It does help with staying focused on the task at hand, he finds.

“It’s complicated. During his time with HYDRA, Bucky was brainwashed, and they’d wiped his memory and made him into a weapon. Made him do horrible things. Including...murdering our friend, Howard Stark… Tony’s father.”

Steve chances a glance at the doctor, to see her looking surprised, but true to her word, she says nothing.

“So yeah, there’s some tension there. Bucky feels guilty. Tony… he understands, but I guess… it’s not an easy thing, facing the murderer of your parents, right? I mean, even if you know that person wasn’t acting on their own volition, it’s…yeah. It’s a shitty situation. Sorry.” he smiles sheepishly. “Should I go on?”

Dr Nazarian nods, and Steve continues.

“Okay. Um, well, we went home after that. I didn’t want to be at the party anymore, and Bucky ordered us a cab and we left. That guy always has my back, you know? It’s not fair-”

Steve runs a hand over his face. “I should have been there. I should have jumped after him, I would’ve survived. He’d never have been taken hostage if I’d been there, I wouldn’t have let that happen. I should’ve looked for him, I-”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to forgive myself for letting that happen to him.”

There’s a beat of silence, when all that can be heard is the ticking clock on the wall, and Steve’s heavy breathing. He needs a moment to calm down. Saying the words out loud brings up the feelings of guilt, and helplessness, and he finds himself in the back of that HYDRA car again, with his hands tied, trying to understand the why and the how of finding Bucky alive, but not knowing who Steve is.

“It felt like he’d died all over again,” Steve whispers. “When I found out he was the Winter Soldier, and he didn’t know who I was. It was like - I could see him, right in front of me, but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Bucky.”

His vision blurs as his eyes fill with hot tears, and Steve wipes them away roughly. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me. He’s the one who went through seventy years of torture and God knows what else. I have no right to be feeling sorry for myself.”

Dr Nazarian speaks then. “You should allow yourself to feel that sadness. Something terrible happened to your friend who you care about so deeply. It’s only natural that it makes you feel sad, and angry. That’s the most normal reaction, Steve.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve huffs, trying and failing to come up with a rebuttal. 

“I understand you have a lot of guilt about this.”

He hangs his head as if in shame.

“It’s okay. We can work on that.” she says, her voice kind as always. When he doesn’t respond, she prompts him again. “Would you like to continue? I’m sorry I interrupted.”

Steve lifts his head to meet her in the eye. “It’s fine. I’m not sure what else to talk about, to be honest.”

“Tell me more about Bucky.”

Steve tilts his head. “What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about something that happened before the war.”

A smile creeps upon his face like a reflex. “We pooled our money together one summer and went to Rockaway Beach. Bucky was playing this game, trying to win a stuffed bear for a girl he liked, but he kept failing and getting annoyed. I remember I couldn’t stop laughing at his scrunched up face. We got hungry, and ate too many hot dogs, then we had to ride back on the back of a freezer truck.

“I think my ma scolded us about it, when we told her. I didn’t know she’d get mad, or I wouldn’t have said anything. I think Bucky stayed over that night. I kept teasing him about Dot until he’d gone red in the face and hid under his pillow.

“We were maybe fifteen. I think that’s when I knew. I never told him, but I knew then.”

Steve looks up and his eyes widen as he snaps back into the present. His mouth had run ahead of him and gone and spilled everything, and now Dr Nazarian is frowning, trying to understand. Steve shakes his head. 

“Anyway. We did dumb stuff like that all the time,” he says, trying to cover up what he’d let slip while his mind was stuck in 1933. “Once, I broke their neighbor’s window with my slingshot. We were grounded for two weeks. Our moms didn’t let us hang out at all. They said we were a bad influence on each other.”

The doctor smiles now, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

“You mentioned the two of you are living together now?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He disappeared for a while, but I found him, and he came back with me.”

Realising she probably doesn’t have the necessary context, Steve elaborates, and talks through everything that happened with SHIELD and HYDRA, and how he and Sam looked for Bucky, how they found him in a beat up, shoebox of an apartment in Bucharest, and finally returned home together.

The doctor looks rather taken aback, but she nods in understanding. “That’s quite a story. None of my textbooks prepared me for this.”

Steve laughs softly. “Yeah, we’re not exactly your run-of-the-mill veterans.”

“No, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” She grins, and it’s reassuring. 

When their hour is up, Steve receives another slip with his next appointment details written on it, and exits the building, only to find Bucky waiting for him outside.

“Hey punk,” he says, handing Steve a large milkshake. 

Steve stands there with the milkshake in his hand for a moment, before he lunges in and takes Bucky in his arms, holding him tightly. He inhales deeply, breathing in Bucky’s scent, a mix of laundry detergent, and the papaya conditioner he uses, and inevitably, sweat, because it is midday in July, in Manhattan.

“Hey bud,” Bucky whispers, closing his arms around Steve’s middle. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

Steve laughs and steps back, letting him go reluctantly. “Sorry. I needed a hug,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Oh,” his gaze is drawn to the cup he’d dropped on the ground in his rush to hug Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky laughs. “Come on, I’ll buy you another one.”

~~

_It’s nighttime, the sky above him clear and full of stars, yet the path before him bright and clearly visible. The snow crunches under his boots when he walks, gun in hand, his shield secure on his back. Suddenly, the path breaks, parting into separate branches._

_“We gotta hurry up,” Natasha says, to his left._

_“Which way, Cap?” Sam asks, to his right._

_Steve stands frozen in his spot, unable to decide._

_There’s a loud explosion somewhere in the wooded forest behind them, and they start running. Someone’s shouting directions at them but Steve can’t make out the words._

_He stops to catch his breath and suddenly he’s in their base near Azzano, in his army uniform. Peggy is next to him, and she’s talking to Colonel Phillips, but not in a language Steve understands. He looks at the map behind him, and there’s a picture of Zola on the wall, and one of Bucky, but his hair is long and his left arm is metal._

_Steve starts running, and he’s out in the snow again. He’s barefoot, and dressed in the SSR t-shirt that’s too tight for him now, and he’s running and running until he falls and his vision goes black._

Steve gasps and he’s awake. He sits up and reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, quickly turning it on. He tries to catch his breath as he takes in his surroundings. 

He’s in Brooklyn. He’s home. Bucky is safe. Bucky is-

“Bucky?” Steve rushes out of the room and knocks on Bucky’s bedroom, and swings the door open before he even gets a response. The bed’s empty, and Steve’s heart is running at full speed. “Bucky?”

“Uh, hi?” Bucky is behind him, holding a glass of water. “Nightmare?” he asks.

Steve nods. “Sorry.”

“’S’okay, I wasn’t sleeping,” Bucky flops down on his bed and pats the space next to him, offering him a seat. 

Steve sits down and lets his head drop into his hands. He feels Bucky’s hand on his back, patting him gently, a feeble attempt to offer some comfort. 

“Good thing I was awake, huh,” Bucky says, his tone taking a teasing edge. “You’d have given me a scare, running in here like that.”

“Yeah,” Steve huffs a laugh and gets to his feet. “I’ll let you catch some shuteye.”

“Nah, stay,” Bucky puts the water aside and lies down on the bed, placing an arm behind his head for support. “I can’t find anything to do, at this hour.”

Steve nods and lies down next to him, settling on his side, eyes on Bucky. He doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t mind the silence. It’s comfortable, between them. They’d spend hours around each other, with Bucky lost in a book, and Steve sketching him, trying to capture his beauty even if it seemed an impossible task. He’d spent so much time studying Bucky over the years, Steve thinks there would never be a time where he wouldn’t recognise him, even if he didn’t know his own name. That’s something that’s true for the both of them, he supposes, because Bucky did break out of his brainwashing and remembered Steve.

“What was your nightmare about?” Bucky asks, turning his head to look at Steve briefly.

Steve sighs. He wants to say, _“I was trying to save you, and I failed again.”_

Instead, he says, “The war.”

Bucky nods but says nothing. The silence stretches between them. In the darkness, Steve lets his gaze linger; his eyes trace Bucky’s sharp jawline, the stubble on his cheek, and the pout of his pink lips. He watches the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest as he breathes, and the stretch of his biceps where his arm is folded under his head. He’s so deeply, recklessly in love with Bucky, and the ache in his chest only grows day by day.

“What do you talk about, when you go to your therapy sessions?” Bucky asks suddenly. 

The question surprises Steve. Bucky had never asked him this before. He takes a moment to think of how to answer. 

“She tells me I can talk about anything I want to. I tell her a bit about what I’ve been up to with the missions. Sometimes I’ll tell her a story from before the war.”

Bucky turns to look at him. “Does it help? Talking about things?”

Steve shrugs. “Sometimes I feel better, sometimes I feel worse. I guess...it helps to know that other people have the same kind of thoughts I do. Means I’m not completely fucked in the head.”

“’Course you’re not,” Bucky nudges his foot against Steve’s, and it makes him smile. 

“She’s nice, though. She doesn’t judge. She just listens.”

Bucky nods, then turns his gaze upwards to the ceiling. “I can’t imagine she’d be the same towards me.” he says, a note of bitterness in his voice.

“Buck…” 

“I remember the mission. Howard recognized me.”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. “How do you know?”

“He called me by my name,” Bucky sighs. “Sergeant Barnes. I remember that. Not that it meant anything to me, at the time.”

“It wasn’t you,” Steve says, like he always does, voice soft. 

Bucky draws in a sharp breath. They’ve had this conversation again, and Steve calls it a conversation and not an argument, because they didn’t get a chance to let it escalate before they were interrupted. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, reaching out, wanting to touch him, but then he draws his hand back. 

Bucky rolls over on his side, and their eyes meet. “I’m sorry, too.” he whispers. 

Steve tries again, and his hand finds Bucky’s and laces their fingers together. Bucky offers him a small smile in return. They fall asleep like that, some time later. 

Steve blinks awake only hours later, when the early morning light creeps upon his face through the gap in the curtains. The space next to him is empty, and in the distance, Steve hears clutter and music and two voices speaking in hushed tones. 

“’Morning,” Bucky says when he sees him, and gives him a tight-lipped smile. “We have a guest.”

Natasha turns around on the barstool and greets him with a little wave. “Good morning, Captain.”

Steve hums in response, though it sounds more like a grunt. Belatedly he realises he’s shirtless, and goes back to his bedroom to get changed. When he re-emerges, he finds a cup of coffee on the kitchen island waiting for him. He takes a sip and lets out a noise of pleasure which is only mildly obscene. 

“What brings you to the Rogers-Barnes residence?”

“It’s Barnes-Rogers.” Bucky intercepts.

“Rogers-Barnes residence,” repeats Steve, mostly to spite him. Bucky flips him off. 

Natasha grins. “For the record, Barnes-Rogers sounds better,” she says, and slides a folder across the table to Steve. “Another HYDRA base. This one’s a little further away.”

“Where is it?” Steve asks, eyes scanning the first page. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Canberra?”

Natasha shrugs. “HYDRA had a reach all over the world.”

“They’re everywhere,” Steve mutters, an angry frown on his face. “Like fucking cockroaches.”

In the background, Bucky snorts a laugh, drawing the redhead’s attention to himself. “You up for it, Barnes?”

Bucky seems to think about it for a moment, while he flips a pancake. “Sure,” he says eventually, shrugging. “Might be fun.”

“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asks. “We can handle-”

“Yes, I’m sure, _mother_. I’m bored here all day.” 

“Have you considered taking up a new hobby?” Natasha asks as she gets to her feet. She stretches, then walks around the counter to help herself to some pancakes. “I heard knitting can be very therapeutic. You could knit Steve a nice, ugly Christmas sweater.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve adds. “Christmas is all about ugly sweaters now.”

Bucky looks between them, trying to gauge if they’re serious. “Sure. I’ll head to the yarn shop right after breakfast. Should I pick up a cane, too, while I’m at it?”

Steve grins. “Get me one, too, ’cause I’m getting too old for this shit.” He tosses the folder on the table, then looks at Nat. “Who else is going?”

“Thor, and Clint. Banner and Stark are up to something in their lab. Don’t worry,” Natasha says before Steve’s had a chance to react. “Pepper and I arranged for someone to supervise them. You know, just in case.”

Steve gives a sharp nod in response, deciding against making a sarcastic comment. He's still not completely forgiven Tony for the Ultron incident.

“Anyway, Maria’s finalizing the plans now, so be ready for take off sometime today.”

Steve looks at Bucky, who nods. Then he turns to Natasha with a cheery smile. “Sounds good.”

To say that everything goes wrong is an understatement. Half an hour before they’re due to reach their destination, just outside the base, the Quinjet starts malfunctioning. Whatever the problem is, Clint can’t figure it out, and even Stark says he can’t help them if he’s not physically there. 

Steve makes a comment about how he should have been there, and Stark retorts by saying, “Technically, I’m retired, so you should be thankful I’m even picking up the phone.”

The safest course of action is to jump ship, and the Quinjet crash lands somewhere in the middle of the forest. From the distance, they hear the explosion, and the flames and smoke. 

So they’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bare trees and snow. 

“Now fucking what,” grumbles Clint, looking around.

“Now we walk,” says Steve, leading the way. He glances back over his shoulder and adds, “Buck, do me a favour and stay close.”

“Cute,” Natasha mutters under her breath, but Steve catches it and shoots her a sharp look. She widens her eyes at him, feigning innocence. 

Stark and Banner are on board a second plane on their way, but it’ll be hours before they arrive. With any luck, they’ll have wrapped up, and can head back with them. 

Sam flies ahead of them, spots the base, and then flies back to let them know it’s not that far ahead. Another hour’s walk and they arrive. Of course, the Quinjet’s crash had alerted the enemy of their arrival, and they’re ambushed. Even with Bucky and Clint on their posts just outside the base, firing arrows and bullets faster than their targets can move, they’re outnumbered. 

A bullet in Natasha’s thigh has her on the ground, gasping and crawling away, looking for a place to hide. Steve, on his way to help, gets struck in the back of his head by two operatives, and is knocked out. They’re tied with ropes to their chairs, back to back. When Steve comes to, he finds four HYDRA agents with their guns pointed at the both of them, and curses under his breath. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, breathless. “So I’m starting to think maybe this was a bad idea.”

Steve grunts as he tries to free himself from the shackles, though it’s futile. Even if he succeeded, the agents would have no qualms about shooting him right in his face, he’s sure, and he needs to make it out of here alive. 

“I’m starting to agree with you.” Steve says, equally out of breath.

In the end it’s Iron Man and the War Machine that save their asses. With their armour, they’re basically bulletproof, and sweep through the base, incapacitating the hostiles as they go. Thor’s hammer comes swinging into the room, and knocks out two of the agents. He appears in the room a moment later, and with a couple more electricity-fueled swings of Mjolnir, the agents are knocked unconscious. 

Steve grabs his shield and runs outside as soon as he’s free. He looks around but Bucky’s nowhere in sight. 

A bullet comes flying past his shoulder and Steve lifts his shield, ready to fight back. When he turns around to see where the attack came from, he sees Bucky’s head poking around from behind a tree bark. Steve exhales, shoulders sagging. Bucky jumps down and walks over to him.

“You could’ve killed me, asshole,” 

“Please,” Bucky flashes him a grin. “My aim is better than that.”

Steve wants to hold him close, but he settles for a playful punch on his shoulder. “Let’s go.” he says, and they start walking towards the Quinjet that’s gonna take them home. 

“Oh hey, Cap,” Tony says as he flies past them. “You’re welcome, by the way, for saving your life and all.”

Steve rolls his eyes. He turns to Bucky, and mutters, “He’s never gonna let this one go.”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “ _Steven._ You owe him your life,” he says, just loudly enough for Steve to hear, sarcasm evident in his tone.

Steve almost trips over his own feet, taken aback. Bucky bursts into a fit of giggles, and once he’s regained his composure, Steve shoves him, hard. “You’re an asshole.”

“So you’ve said,” Bucky slings an arm around Steve’s shoulder, and it’s like they’re a bunch of twenty year olds walking down the streets of Brooklyn all over again. 

The journey home is long and tiresome. Steve finds himself nodding off for several moments at a time, only to awaken whenever there’s turbulence. Most of his team is wiped out, and asleep in various positions all over the vehicle. 

He’s exhausted by the time they get home. He takes off his uniform, takes a quick shower to wash off the grime and dried blood, and climbs into bed, drifting off moments later.

~~

“I had another nightmare the other day. We’d flown to Australia, the day before, trying to take down another HYDRA base, but it didn’t go as planned, and we were grounded in the snow. Anyway, we came out on top, at the end, and I was really tired when we got home. I should’ve slept like a log, but-”

Steve cuts himself off, turning his gaze to one of the framed diplomas on the doctor’s walls. 

“What was your nightmare about?”

“The snow, the train, Bucky,” Steve shrugs. “It’s always the same, more or less. Sometimes I’m in the middle of battle, or I’m somewhere in Europe, like during the war. Sometimes it’s not even a nightmare, really, but it’s just a different brand of shit. Weird, messed up things that wear me out. I’m tired of it.”

She looks sympathetic. “That’s common for people who have gone through some trauma. Was it something about the mission that triggered it, in your opinion?”

Steve shrugs. “Shit goes wrong, we deal with it. I don’t know - well,” he says, pausing. “Bucky was with us. He came along. I guess I got really worried when me and Nat were captured, and the comms were cut off, I didn’t know if he was safe.”

“Does that happen often?” she asks.

“No, not really, this is the first time he’s joined us on a mission.”

“Sorry, I meant, do you worry about his safety often?”

“Oh,” Steve’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. “I guess less so now than the early days. He seems to be adjusting, better than me, even. I think he’s doing okay, so...”

Dr Nazarian nods. “What else do you find yourself worrying about?”

“I don’t know.” Steve says, answering honestly. 

Yes, oftentimes there’s a fear inside him he can’t seem to shake off, but that’s just something he’s carried with him from the war, all the way to the 21st century. But he couldn’t pinpoint the cause of his anxiety, unless it was a moment of irrational panic when he was caught watching Bucky, or drawing him, or more recently, masturbating to images of him. That, he knew, was his fear of Bucky finding out the truth, and it leading to the inevitable end of their friendship. 

She must sense his unease, because she changes the subject. “Okay, missions aside, what do you like to do in your free time?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m still catching up on everything I’ve missed, so that takes up some of my time. I go running, I hang out with Sam and Nat and Bucky. I like to draw, sometimes. I used to draw a lot more when I was a kid. I wanted to be an artist.”

She smiles. “I’ve seen some of your work. They have it in the exhibition-”

“In the Smithsonian, yeah, I know,” Steve nods. “I’ve seen it.”

“Oh,” she says, a look of surprise on her face. “Have you asked them to return them to you?”

“No. What for?”

“Well, they are your personal possessions, after all,” she elaborates. “Fair enough if they want to have a display of your old uniform, or profiles on the members of your unit, but those drawings belong to _you_ , Steve Rogers. You don’t think you’re entitled to them?”

Steve sits back, taking in the new information. He hadn’t even thought about it. It had bothered him, when he’d seen the drawings at the Smithsonian. He didn’t like that they’d taken something so private and put it on display; there was a portrait of Bucky there, and another one of Peggy. But he’d been dead with no next of kin, so he found it natural the government had kept some of his things. He’d been a national icon, after all. 

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he says. “I didn’t like that they were on display but - you think I can do that?”

“It’s worth a try. It’s not often a historical person comes back to claim their belongings, but I’m sure the law would be on your side.”

Steve nods. “Maybe. I might try asking around. I could ask Sam, he’d probably know.” He says, then frowns, as if another thought occurs to him. “I could take some art lessons.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“I have the time, and the resources...I guess I never really got back into it, after everything. At some point, I realised it was a pipe dream, wanting to be an artist. I’d never earn enough to make rent. So I stopped trying. I mean, I still draw, ’cause I enjoy it. And I’m not saying I could be an artist _now_ -” he stops, realising he’s started to ramble, flustered, and recollects his thoughts. “I’d like to learn more.”

“Keep me posted,” Dr Nazarian says. “I think it’ll be good for you, getting back into a hobby you used to enjoy. That’s another part of recovery.”

Steve nods. He’s flushed with adrenaline. He wants to rush to the store right that moment. He could buy a proper sketchpad, and pencils, and watercolours and brushes and a canvas to paint on. He leans forward and picks up the Play-Doh and starts fidgeting with it. 

“What else would you like to talk about today, Steve?”

Steve tries to think. There’s a million things he wants to say. 

_I was an idiot for being so angry when I’d woken up. The world is a better place now, than it used to be, and anyone like me is lucky to be alive now. I wouldn’t go back now, even if I could._

_Peggy rarely remembers me anymore. I don’t visit her so often anymore, because it hurts me to see her like that, and I think it’s better to spare her the tears that fall down her cheeks when she recognises me._

_Sometimes when I run, it feels like I’m coming up at the finish line any moment now, and then I’ll be free, and I’ll be able to stop running._

_I sleep better when Bucky’s next to me, and I hate myself for it._

Instead, he says, “I don’t know,” and he doesn’t dare to meet her gaze. 

“Would you like to try a writing exercise?” she asks.

Steve’s head snaps up, eyebrows drawn together. “A writing exercise?” he echoes.

“Yes. Studies have shown that writing about your traumatic experience can improve your overall wellbeing. Or you could write about anything you’d like, to be honest, just as long as it’s something meaningful.” The doctor explains. She gets up and moves to her desk and starts typing something on her computer. “I’ll send you some links, and you can have a read for yourself. If you’re up for it, give it a try, and we can look over what you’ve written in our next session. How does that sound?”

Steve draws in a long breath and exhales. “Yeah, I can give it a try.”

This would have been a great opportunity to mention that he’d tried writing, when he’d first come out of the ice, if Steve had even a smidge of courage to admit it out loud. He knows it’s not healthy behaviour, and if he’s honest, he’s scared of what the doctor might think of him, if she knew.

On his way home, he stops by a stationery shop and buys a small black notebook with lined pages, and a gel pen that glides smoothly across the paper. Then he picks up an A4 sketchpad and a set of black marker pens. He feels giddy as he pays for the items at the counter. Not so much for his writing assignment, but he’s eager to get home and draw something. 

The subject ends up being Bucky, like so many other times before. Steve can hardly keep the smile off his face as his pen sweeps across the paper, capturing the waves of Bucky’s hair in its messy half-updo, the pout of his mouth, with his teeth sinking into his lower lip from time to time as he eyes scan over the pages of the book he’s engrossed in. He hasn’t even noticed that he’s being drawn, or if he has, he hasn’t said anything.

Steve picks up the finer pen to start working on Bucky’s beard, which has grown thicker as he neglects to shave it, saying he’s too lazy for that. Then he draws the book in his hand, then the sleeves of his t-shirt, rolled up to his shoulders, and the intricate plates of his metal arm. 

“Are you done?” Bucky asks some time later, looking up from his book.

Steve’s eyes grow wide, his smile fading away. “Yeah. You knew?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “’Course I knew, it’s you.” he picks up a pillow and throws it at Steve. “Go make us dinner.”

Steve catches the pillow mid-air, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “Sir, yes, sir!”

He’s bent over, examining the contents of the fridge, trying to decide what to cook, when Bucky saunters into the kitchen, holding the sketchbook. He slaps Steve’s ass and Steve jumps up straight, his cheeks flushing a soft pink. 

“Asshole.” 

Bucky barely bites back his grin, hiding behind the sketchbook. “Why do I look so serious?”

“You don’t look serious, you look focused.” Steve grabs the sketchbook and flips it shut, putting it aside. There’s nothing incriminating about it. He sketches people, that’s what he does. But part of him fears Bucky will be able to see through the ink, and right into Steve’s heart, from where he pours all of his love and affection into the paper. 

“What are we having?” Bucky asks, propping an elbow onto the counter and placing his chin onto his palm. “I’m starving.”

“Well, we have two bell peppers, some cheese, and some yogurt. And beer. Can you make something out of that?”

Bucky huffs a breath of air. “Someone forgot to go to the shop.”

“ _Someone_ was supposed to remind me,” Steve retorts, raising an eyebrow at Bucky.

“Uh, hello? I’m a recovering amnesiac.”

Steve bites back a smile and picks up an apple from the fruit bowl next to him, throwing it at Bucky. He catches it, of course, and bites into it, utterly unbothered. _I love you so much,_ Steve thinks, and with that he turns around and walks away, mostly to mask the blush that creeps up his neck. He flops down on the armchair and pulls up the food-ordering app on his phone, starts scrolls through the cuisine categories. 

“Do you like Chinese?” he calls out to Bucky, not realising that the man’s back in the living room.

“Oooh,” Bucky leans in over his shoulder, looking at his phone screen. “Get that thing with the pancakes. What was that? Duck?”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles, adding it to the order, but it takes him a moment to find it in the menu, given that he’s distracted by Bucky’s proximity to him. He smells like that fancy deodorant he’d bought from the mall a couple weeks back. Steve wants to turn his head and nuzzle into Bucky’s neck. 

“And some fried rice,” Bucky reaches out and taps on Steve’s screen, and Steve sighs and hands him his phone. “And dumplings,” Bucky adds. “What do you want to drink?”

“Beer’s fine. Can we watch something?”

Television is a pleasant distraction, even if Bucky plasters himself right next to Steve. It’s maddening. Steve could shove him away, say something about it being too hot, or tease him about being smelly, and Bucky would probably bring his feet up right next to Steve’s face, like when they were kids. 

The movie comes up on their Netflix recommendation, and they decide to watch it. The food arrives halfway through, and they eat way too much, even finishing off the free prawn crackers the restaurant sent them. By the end of the movie, Steve’s laid down on one side of the couch, head resting on a pillow, and Bucky’s on the opposite end.

“Do you think that’ll ever be us?” Bucky asks as the movie comes to an end. The family on their screens are hugging each other, mother and father and their three children.

“Huh?”

“You know,” Bucky makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Happily ever after, and all.”

“Oh,” Steve frowns. He sits up and draws his knees to his chest. **_This_ ** _is my happily ever after,_ he wants to say. “I don’t know. Do you want that? A wife and kids?”

“Not exactly.” Bucky sighs. He looks troubled. “Anyway, it’s bullshit. I wouldn’t forgive anyone who lied to me like that.”

Steve agrees. The premise of the film was meant to be humorous, but he felt uneasy, watching the protagonist take advantage of the amnesiac man, even if he’d been a complete asshole to her before his accident. 4

He tries to think whether he’d have done the same thing, if he were in his shoes, but it just feels wrong. 

“I wouldn’t have lied to you.”

The words stumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. Steve feels his face heat up with embarrassment, but he looks over to see Bucky smiling, and some of the awkwardness eases.

“I know,” Bucky says, voice soft. 

At night, Steve finds himself tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. The fan’s on high, and there’s even a light breeze, offering some relief from the unbelievable heat, but none of that helps. 

He’s restless, every muscle in his body tightly wound like a spring coil. It drives him up the wall, when his brain gets like this. Steve sits up on his bed, giving up on sleep. He reaches for the little box in his nightstand and rolls a joint instead.

He’s sat on the ottoman by the window in the living room, when Bucky walks in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s only wearing a pair of thin sleep pants that hang loosely from his hips, and Steve’s eyes are drawn to the ’V’ of his hipbones.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks, but he knows he’d been careful about making minimal noise as he moved around. 

Bucky shakes his head. “Just thirsty. Since when do you smoke?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s not tobacco. It’s pot. Um, it helps me sleep.” 

It’s not the whole truth, but he doesn’t want to say how it takes him out of his own mind and offers him some goddamn peace even for only a couple of hours.

Bucky doesn’t comment any further, instead heading towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Steve calls after him, asking if Bucky can bring him some, too. It’s really not that grand a gesture, but when he sees Bucky return with two glasses, it make him melt a little. Maybe it’s the pot.

 _Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re head over heels in love with him, dumbass_ , his mind supplies. Steve ignores it.

“Where’d you get your hands on that stuff, anyway? I thought possession without a valid medical certificate is a punishable offense in the State of New York.”

When Steve gives him a puzzled look, Bucky shrugs. “I went down a Wikipedia rabbit hole.”

Steve huffs. “Right. Natasha gave me some.”

“Captain America!” Bucky gasps, widening his eyes in mock horror. “What will people _think_?”

Steve breathes a laugh. “Oh the humanity,” he throws his head back, placing the back of his hand against his forehead in dramatic fashion. 

“I can see the headlines now,” Bucky sets his glass down and sits next to Steve, picking up his legs to make space on the furniture, then placing them back on his lap. “America’s Golden Boy Corrupted By Ex-KGB Spy.”

Steve full on laughs now. “Please. I’ve been corrupt since I was old enough to talk.”

“ _I_ know that,” Bucky grins at him. “ _They_ don’t know that. I think I ought to tell the world about the time Captain America dragged me to a speakeasy in 1939. Should I make a Twitter account?”

Steve laughs again. Bucky reaches for the cigarette and Steve lets him have the rest of it. He’s had enough now anyway; he’s not fully sober but not that intoxicated, either. There’s a warmth in his belly and he feels loose and free.

Bucky’s hand is around one of his ankles, his thumb absentmindedly circling over the bone of Steve’s heel. He takes a drag and nearly coughs up a lung, and it sends Steve into a fit of giggles.

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbles, reaching for his water. “I haven’t had a cigarette in seventy-five years.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you thought plenty,” Bucky gives him a serious look. “You know I can read your thoughts, Steven.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “You can?” he whispers, but his mind catches up a moment later. “Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “Dumbass.”

“You’re the dumbass.”

“I sure am, for putting up with your dumb ass.”

“You love my dumb ass,” Steve tries to swing his foot and kick him, but Bucky’s metal fist closes over his ankle, restraining him. Bucky turns his head and shoots him a mischievous smirk, eyes locked with Steve’s. 

Steve’s dick stirs in his pants, causing him to breath in sharply. He brings his free leg up to his chest, in an effort to conceal his groin without raising suspicion. He turns his head and looks out the window, searching for something to distract him, because he’s not going to let his mind wander down that path and embarrass him.

“I feel no different, by the way.” Bucky says. He puts it out in the ashtray on the windowsill and gets to his feet, letting Steve’s legs drop to the floor.

“It usually takes some time to kick in,” Steve starts to explain, but then Bucky’s grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed before you corrupt me any more.”

Steve doesn’t think about all the ways he’d like to corrupt Bucky in bed. Absolutely not.

~~

“So,” Dr Nazarian says when they sit down. “How was the writing exercise?”

Steve looks down at the open notebook in his lap. He’d written plenty, but he didn’t particularly feel like sharing every part of it. “I think it helped.”

She nods. “You don’t have to read any of it out loud, but could you tell me a little about it? What did you write about?”

“Just… my thoughts,” Steve says simply. He looks up to see the doctor is struggling to keep a straight face, and he realises how dumb he’d sounded. He sighs, and tries again. “I couldn’t sleep, so I just started writing whatever came to mind. I wrote about my mom. I miss her. She’d nursed me through so many illnesses. My immune system was shit before the serum, and I gotta tell ya, it’s one thing I don’t miss. I just… I feel like I didn’t appreciate her enough. She worked hard to provide for us - my dad died when I was young, so it was just me and her. And I definitely didn’t make things easy for her, Jesus,” 

Steve presses his palms to his eyes, trying to hold back the tears.

“I guess I feel guilty. I wish I could have - I don’t know. Given something back. To thank her for all she did for me. She died before the war, so she didn’t even see any of this,” he says, gesturing at himself. “And I can’t help but wonder, what she’d think of me, now. If she knew what I’d done, and who I’d become. I know she’d still love me, but… I guess I feel like I’m letting her down.”

Steve clears his throat. “Um, I wrote a bit about doing the USO tours, before I joined the war. I hated those tours. They had me in a different city every day, and people gathered to see our stupid routine wherever we went. The shows were sold out, for fuck’s sake. It was just - I didn’t have a choice in the matter. They didn’t know what to do with me, after Erskine died. There wasn’t enough of the serum to create the army of super-soldiers they wanted, and without him, the experiments would’ve taken years to recreate. I wished he hadn’t chosen me, then. I wished that when I came out of the ice, too. It was the serum that preserved my life.”

He pauses, and draws in a long breath. Dr Nazarian asks him, “Do you still wish that?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not anymore, no. Not since Azzano.”

“What happened in Azzano?”

“Bucky’s unit was captured, and they weren’t going to send out a rescue team. HYDRA had these weapons that made our guns look like a goddamn slingshot. But I flew out to the base and got him and the rest of the prisoners out. I figured, I couldn’t have done that if I didn’t have the serum - hell, I wouldn’t have even been there in the first place, I wouldn’t have known. I’d be stuck at home, and Bucky would have died there. Or worse - if he’d survived...well. We know how that story ends. And I wouldn’t have been here, when SHIELD was taken over by HYDRA. Who else would have recognised him, and tried to save him? The Winter Soldier was a hostile. At best, he’d have been killed. At worst, he’d still be with HYDRA. I’ve thought about this a lot. I realised if I’d never been given the serum, I wouldn’t be here, but neither would Bucky. I’d be long dead, but Bucky’s fate could’ve been worse than death. So I don’t regret it, anymore.”

The words are pouring out of him like water from a glass that’s been overfilled. He doesn’t find it so hard, now, to speak what’s on his mind. In a moment of stupid bravery, Steve closes his eyes, and draws in a shaky breath before he says, in a whisper, “Truth is I’m in love with him. Have been for a very long time.”

When his confession doesn’t elicit his expected response, Steve looks up at the doctor sat across from him, and only sees sympathy in her eyes. 

“I guessed as much.” she says. 

Steve’s shoulders tense. “How?”

Dr Nazarian puts her clipboard down. “It is clear that Bucky is very important to you. You talk about him often. I thought maybe there was something more there, that you didn’t realise yourself, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions.”

“Oh,”

“You’ve never told him how you feel?”

“No. I couldn’t. Our friendship - I can’t ruin that. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” He grits his teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Why on _earth_ did he open his big dumb mouth and tell her _this_ , his most closely guarded secret, completely _unprompted_. Fucking shit.

“Okay. That’s okay, let’s change the subject. Would you-”

“Actually,” Steve says, interrupting her. “Do you mind if we end the session early? Sorry. I think I’ve run out of things to say for today.”

“Of course.”

They schedule their next appointment, and Steve heads home. He changes into his exercise clothes, grabs his bag and heads to the gym. He runs on the treadmills and uses the bench press until dark, and when there’s hardly any people left in the gym, he heads towards the punching bag - his favourite outlet. 

The gym closes at midnight, and Steve thinks it’s a good thing, too, because he’s not sure he would’ve stopped, otherwise. When he unwraps the cloth from his hands, he finds that his knuckles are bloody. He doesn’t care. He’s completely drained, feeling as if his legs might give out at any given moment. It’s a miracle he makes it home without collapsing, but once he’s inside, he shuts the door and sags against it, and suddenly he’s on the floor, struggling to catch his breath. 

“Steve? Where were you? I’ve been calling you.” Bucky appears in the hallway and flips the lightswitch. Upon seeing the state Steve’s in, his whole demeanor changes. “Jesus, what happened? Don’t tell me there was another alien attack in Manhattan.”

Steve shakes his head. “Was at the gym,” he breathes out, and holds out his arm. Bucky grabs his hand and pulls him up.

“Doing what? Trying to kill yourself?”

Steve gives him a cold look and walks away, brushing past him roughly. Bucky follows him into the bathroom, apparently not getting the hint, or simply refusing to let it go. 

“Would you care to explain yourself?”

Steve turns on the shower and starts stripping out of his clothes. “Nope.”

“What the hell, Steve!” Bucky grabs his arm and spins him around, forcing Steve to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes is pure anger, and it unsettles Steve. “What’s gotten into you?”

“’M’fine,” Steve yanks his arm out of Bucky’s grasp. “Can you let me shower?”

“No.” Bucky crosses his arms and leans against the wall. 

Steve shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and takes off his pants and underwear, throwing them towards the laundry hamper. He draws back the curtain and steps inside. He sighs in relief as the hot water washes over him, drenching him from head to toe. Maybe he should’ve done this instead of trying to fight his anger away.

“I’m not going anywhere!” Bucky calls over the sound of the water. 

“That’s alright with me!” Steve shouts back.

The sound of the door slamming behind him as Bucky finally exits the bathroom should have made him feel glad, because it meant he’d won the fight, but it just makes him feel like shit. He hurries to wash up and get dressed, and then he’s standing outside Bucky’s bedroom, trying to muster up the courage to knock. 

Bucky answers after several moments, inviting him in. He still looks angry, and Steve feels even worse now. He knows Bucky had been worried, and all Steve did was make him mad. 

“I was angry,” Steve says finally. “When I came out of the ice, I was angry. I hated that the serum made me survive. I didn’t want to be awake. I wished they’d never found me. I wished I didn’t have the serum.”

Steve takes a hesitant step forward. Bucky gets to his feet so they’re at eye-level. 

“But I realised,” Steve continues. “If I didn’t have the serum, if I wasn’t alive now - I don’t know what would have happened to you. No one at SHIELD would have recognised you, they’d have shot you point blank, or you’d be-” he cuts himself off, and looks down at their bare feet. 

“I feel horrible about being so angry at the world. I wouldn’t have it any other way, now. This is where I’m supposed to be, Buck,” Steve’s voice wavers as tears fill his eyes. “And I feel even worse, because I’m _happy_ you’re here with me, and I know how you _got_ here, and-”

Bucky grabs him and pulls him close, his arms enveloping Steve, and Steve loses it. He wraps his arms around Bucky, holding him tight, and he starts to sob with his head buried in the crook of Bucky’s neck, muffling the noises. He cries until he’s out of tears, and Bucky holds him through it, a gentle hand caressing his back in soothing motions. 

It’s not fair, that he’s the one who seeks comfort in his friend’s arms, as if Bucky hasn’t been through enough already without having to console Steve during a complete breakdown. 

He breaks the embrace and wipes the tears away roughly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice hoarse. 

“Don’t be.” Bucky tells him. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Bucky curls around him, one leg shoved between Steve’s, and his arm around Steve’s middle. His breath is hot on Steve’s neck, and it tickles him slightly, bringing a smile to his face. He feels safe.

~~

Sam visits on the weekend, bringing with him two bags full of snacks and several DVDs from his collection. “How are my favourite senior citizens doing on this fine Saturday?”

“Oh you know, just reading the paper, listening to the radio.” Bucky walks up to him and snatches the bag away, rifling through it. “Did you bring Twizzlers?”

“Nuh uh,” Sam shakes his head. “Gotta watch those dentures, pal.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at him. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands Sam a $5 note. “Here, kid, run to the shop for me, will ya?”

Sam grabs the note from his hands and pockets it, flashing him a charming grin. “Thanks, Grandpa, you’re the best.”

Bucky huffs and returns to his spot on the couch, grouchily flopping down and putting his feet on the coffee table. Steve listens to the conversation from his spot in the armchair, where he’s sat with his legs swung over one armrest, and his back leaning against the other. He shakes his head at their childish banter, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. Any signs of amusement only eggs them on, he’s found. 

“What movies did you bring?” he asks Sam, changing the subject. 

Sam opens his backpack and pulls them out, placing them on the coffee table. “I have for you the finest collection. I would recommend we start with _Back to the Future_. When you love it, we can watch the second and third parts, too.”

Bucky hums, looking over the covers, and spots something that looks familiar. “American Pie? Seriously?”

Sam grins. “What? It’s a classic.”

“Yeah, I’m a big fan of secondhand embarrassment.” Bucky says sarcastically. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat apple pie ever again, so there goes my Fourth of July plans.”

Steve looks up from his phone, frowning. “Wait, what am I missing? I haven’t seen it.”

“You’re better for it, trust me.”

Sam clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. It’s a must see. It’s so bad it’s good.”

“I disagree, I think it’s just bad, full stop,” Bucky retorts, tossing the movie aside and looking through the rest of the DVDs. “But I don’t expect your tastes to be anything short of terrible.” 

“Oh right, remind me again who did you call crying when you watched Brokeback Mountain?”

“Brokeback Mountain?” Steve asks, still not following. 

“Gay cowboys,” Bucky tells him, as if that explains anything. “And I was _not_ crying. I was just-” he makes a vague sweeping gesture with his metal hand. “I’m not an emotionless robot, okay!”

“Coulda fooled me,” Sam mutters.

Steve sits upright on the armchair and leans over, looking through the DVDs. “Do you have that DVD? The mountain one?”

“No, but I think it’s on Netflix. You wanna watch that?”

Steve hopes he’s not blushing. “What’s it about?” he asks, feigning nonchalance. 

“Gay cowboys,” his friends reply simultaneously, then Sam springs to his feet, shouting, “Jinx!” 

“Fuck you, Wilson!”

“No! You’re jinxed! You can’t talk!” 

Bucky raises a challenging eyebrow. He gives Sam the middle finger, smiling sweetly, and then he sits back, crossing his arms over his chest, and fixing his gaze on the television where Steve is scrolling through Netflix. 

Steve finds the film in question and adds it to his list, meaning to watch it later. 

“Hey, we can watch it now, if you want.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Steve waves his hand dismissively. “You guys have already seen it. I’ll watch it another time.”

They settle on Jurassic Park, and it turns out to be really enjoyable, even if Steve had his reservations upon reading the synopsis. Sam and Bucky’s commentary all throughout the movie makes it funnier, too. 

“I had a crush on that guy when I was a kid,” Sam says, with a nod towards the TV, where the professor appears shirtless. 

It’s not the first time Sam’s made a comment that pointed to his attraction to men, and Steve wonders once again, if he is being tested - if Sam expects him to say something old-fashioned and closed-minded. Another part of him wonders if Sam knows, because of his _gaydar_ , or those fifteen seconds of flirting they did when they first met, and is trying to give Steve the chance to come out, as it were. 

Steve makes no comment, either way.

“I can see the appeal,” Bucky says, tilting his head to the side. “But I think he might be out of your league, buddy.”

“Please," Sam juts his chin out. “I’m a catch.”

“You’re the catch of the day, more like.”

“Meaning what?”

“Like fish,” Bucky explains. “You’re slimy and you smell.”

“Wow, Barnes, real mature.” Sam rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. 

“Yes, I’ve grown wise, in my age,” Bucky replies, bringing his hand to his chin to stroke it thoughtfully. 

Sam laughs and gives him a playful punch to his shoulder and they lapse into silence. 

“How’s therapy going?” he asks Steve later, when it’s just the two of them, waiting to pick up their dinner order from the Syrian restaurant a few blocks away.

“Good, I think,” Steve says. “She gave me a writing assignment. Is that normal?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. I only work with groups, and if I gave them a writing assignment I’d turn into an English teacher.”

Steve chuckles. “I think she’s trying to get me to talk. Open up. Whatever. I feel bad because I haven’t made it easy for her.” he says, shaking his head at himself.

“You know that’s their whole thing, right?” Sam asks, tone dry. “That’s exactly why you are seeing a therapist in the first place.”

“I know, but-”

“Have you brought up your guilt issue?”

“My what?” 

Sam looks at him, and Steve can’t decipher the expression on his face.

“The fact that you’re carrying all this guilt around with you.” Sam explains. “It’s a totally normal thing, don’t get me wrong, but you have to resolve some of it. Namely, your guilt about Barnes.”

Steve squares his shoulders. “Do you feel less guilty about Riley?”

“Less than I did in the beginning, yeah.” Sam shrugs. “It’s not doing you any good, man, trust me.”

Steve does trust him, but the thought of not feeling guilty for things that were clearly his fault can’t fit in his mind. He let Bucky fall, and Bucky suffered greatly for it. 

Still, he makes a note of it in his notebook that night, with the intention to bring it up at the next session. 

_Sam told me I need to mention my guilt issue and try to resolve it through therapy. I don’t think I have a guilt issue. I think I have guilt, because things happened, terrible things, and it’s my fault they happened. Isn’t that what having a conscience is? If I don’t feel guilty, isn’t that equivalent to not taking responsibility for my actions?_

_Anyway, I’m writing it down because… I trust Sam with this. He definitely knows better than me, about this kind of stuff. I have a lot of respect for him, for the work he does with veterans. It’s not an easy job, but I know he’s helped so many people come home. I’d be happy if I could help_ _one_ _. Not that I think helping Bucky is my job, but it’s the least I could do, right? I’ve been up and about longer than him, anyway, and my time in the ice wasn’t as horrifying._

_I’ve been drawing more. I looked up where I can take art lessons and the options were overwhelming. I bookmarked some pages to look at them again later._

_We went to the gym together, yesterday. We were in our living room, bickering about something, and that turned into sparring, and we broke a lamp. So we went to the boxing rink and beat the shit out of each other. It was fun. It’s always fun. He taught me how to fight in the war. Well, Peggy did first, and then Bucky, when we formed the Howling Commandos. The first time we wrestled, back then, I nearly cracked one of his ribs, ’cause I wasn’t used to the super strength yet. He won’t let me live it down, but I don’t mind, ’cause now I can say, “Hey remember that time you tried to kill me?” and he says, “Nothing could kill you, punk, not even God himself,” and we laugh about it._

_I think part of me likes sparring with him because I like seeing him all hot and sweaty. It’s horrible, I know, and I can’t bring myself to share these thoughts with anyone. I’ll keep this secret, right close to my heart, and when I die, it’ll die with me._

He doesn’t share all of that with Dr Nazarian - namely, the part where he’s fantasizing about his best friends in a variety of sexual scenarios.

“Okay, there’s something my friend Sam said to me about carrying the guilt around with me, and that it’s not healthy,” Steve says, flipping open the notebook. “I wrote about that.”

He reads the first few lines of his journal entry, about having a conscience and taking responsibility. Even when he hears his thoughts being spoken out loud, they don’t sound irrational. It makes perfect sense, in his opinion.

“If I remember correctly, you said you feel guilty about what happened to Bucky, right?”

“Yeah. I let him fall off that train, and I didn’t go looking for him, and-”

“Why didn’t you look for him?”

Steve falters. It’s not often that she interrupts him, and even less often does she ask such a direct question. It would have sounded like an accusation, coming from anyone else.

“I thought he was dead. No one would have survived a fall from that high up. I didn’t know he’d been given some form of the serum I had, but even if I’d known - I mean, I don’t think Dr Erskine meant for it to make you invincible.”

“Okay, so you had no reason to believe he’d be alive. Can you tell me about his fall - what happened there?”

“A HYDRA soldier blasted a hole on the side of the train, with one of those weapons they had, using the powers of the tesseract. Bucky was knocked out of the train. He was holding from a rail, or something, and I tried to reach for him-”

Steve cuts himself off, tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

“It sounds to me his fall was the result of an attack from the enemy.”

“You weren’t there!” Steve snaps, shooting her a glare. 

“Steve, I’ve treated war veterans before, and other trauma survivors. I can tell you this isn’t the first time I’ve seen misplaced guilt.”

Steve looks down at his hands, balled up into fists so hard his knuckles turned white. 

“Does he blame you, for his fall?”

“I…” Steve trails off. “I don’t know.”

“Have you ever apologised to him about this?”

Steve shakes his head. “What good is an apology. It’s not going to fix anything.”

Dr Nazarian sets her clipboard down and leans forward in her seat. “An apology isn’t meant to fix everything. You apologise to express that you regret your actions. But, what I wanted to find out, was whether he blames you or not, because by the sound of things, I doubt that he would. Have you ever asked him?”

Steve shakes his head again. 

“Why not?” she asks, her tone kind as always, non-judgemental.

“I’m afraid he might say yes.”

She nods. “That’s understandable.”

He scoffs. “I just think if I had caught him, he wouldn’t have been captured, and he wouldn’t have been brainwashed and had his memories erased and been turned into a goddamn weapon.”

“But he _could_ have been captured at some point later on. You don’t know how things might have played out. It’s not your fault that the enemy took him hostage, and put him through horrible things. _They_ did that. Not you.”

Steve looks away. “I know that. I know it makes sense. But I still feel guilty.”

“That’s okay. We’ll keep working on that.”

He sighs. “I think...I’ll try to apologise in person.”

She nods as she scribbles something down. “These things are best done face to face,” she says, and belatedly Steve realises what he’d said.

He breathes a sigh of relief that he hasn’t been caught. He thinks he might, one of these days, if he’s not careful about what he says to her. Then he thinks, would that be the worst thing? He’d already told her he was in love with Bucky, and she had barely reacted at all. He knew she was required to keep the things they talked about confidential - that was one of the first things she said, in their first session. 

_Fuck it._

“I meant, I have apologized before, technically,” He says, eyes cast downwards. “I used to write him letters. Um, before I knew he was alive. Mostly. Well, not letters, just - I wrote things down as if I’d be telling him, if I could have.”

“What sort of things did you write, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Steve glances at her briefly, then returns his gaze to his fidgety hands. “Things about the future. Things about Peggy. That I missed him and I wished he were here.”

It’s ironic, that his wish, as it were, came true, and Bucky returned to his life, though it was not without the devastating prerequisites. Sometimes, Steve thought, the Gods were laughing at him. Then he’d realised he no longer believed in such deities, and that it was just life itself kicking him down over and over again. 

“And now that he is here, you haven’t shared these things with him?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not really. I mean, some of it, yeah, like I told him how I was fighting aliens in Manhattan and thinking he’d have loved it. That made him laugh.”

“What’s keeping you from sharing your thoughts with him?”

Steve looks at her blankly. “I don’t want him to know.”

She looks as if she’s waiting for him to elaborate, but moments later her eyebrows shoot up as realisation dawns. “Right. Why don’t you want him to know that?”

He’s glad she doesn’t say the exact words, because he couldn’t bear to hear them. “Because… he’s not like that. I mean, um - I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in men. He’s never said anything. Or even if he was gay, I don’t think he’d feel the same way about me. So why tell him and ruin a good thing?” he shrugs. “Him and I… it’s not going to happen. I’ve made my peace with it. He’s my best friend, and I feel lucky that I get to be with him at all, in any capacity.”

“Steve, is this something you feel guilty about? These feelings you have for him?”

Steve clenches his jaw. It’s all out on the table now. “Yes.”

Afterwards, Steve starts to walk home with his head hung, his hands tucked in his pockets. It’s not until he’s several blocks away from the doctor’s office that he realises he needs to get on the subway, or maybe call a cab, because he’s apparently set out to walk from midtown Manhattan all the way to their house in Brooklyn. 

He’s distracted. Dr Nazarian didn’t push him on the Bucky issue, like he was afraid she might, and she didn’t judge him for keeping his secrets from Bucky, either. She’d said something about how he needed to try to be more open with his friend, and he told her he’d try. He’d made some progress, anyway, because he’d basically told Bucky he was happy that they were both alive, that they were here in the future, together. That had to count for something.

Bucky is talking with someone on the phone when Steve gets home. He doesn’t announce his arrival as usual, so as not to interrupt him, and as he starts to take off his shoes by the entryway, Steve overhears part of the conversation. He can hear Bucky pacing around the living room as he speaks. 

“I don’t know. I’m just tired. I keep thinking it might get easier but it doesn’t.” Bucky says, frustration evident in his tone. He sighs. “This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have called. Um, sorry to waste your time.”

There’s a moment of silence as the other person responds, and then Bucky says. “Well, uh, thanks. Have a nice day. Bye.”

Steve, who had been standing just out of sight, takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe, trying to appear casual as he folds his arms across his chest. 

Bucky startles and jumps a little. “Jesus,”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody,” Bucky locks his phone and tosses it on the couch where he takes a seat. “How was therapy?”

“Peachy,” Steve replies, his frown deepening. He sits on the adjacent armchair. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

Bucky doesn’t meet his eye. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Why not?” Bucky shoots him a sharp look. “It’s your favourite game, isn’t it?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Buck, come on. Were you talking to Sam?”

“No.” Bucky runs a hand over his face with a sigh. “I called one of those helpline numbers.”

Steve’s eyes grow wide with concern. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Bucky barks out a laugh though there’s no amusement in it. When he looks at Steve again, all that Steve can see in his eyes is a resigned sadness. Yeah, maybe that was a dumbass question.

“I’m sorry.” Steve says, voice soft.

“Don’t apologise. Seriously, I’m fine. I just… I thought maybe, I don’t know. I’m having a bad day, alright? I just wanted to...get it off my chest, or something.”

Steve nods. “You can always talk to me, you know.”

“Steve, I love you, but you’re the worst person to talk to.”

Steve gapes. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s this thing…” Bucky gets to his feet and starts pacing around the room again, nervously running his fingers through his hair. “I can’t explain it.”

Steve walks towards him, and puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, steadying him. “Hey. Look at me. Are you okay? Do you wanna get some fresh air?”

Bucky nods, closing his eyes briefly. “‘M okay. I’m frustrated, is all.”

“Okay,” Steve nods in response. “I get it. Really, I do. If I suggest giving therapy a try, you won’t punch me, right?”

Bucky shakes his head, even as the corners of his mouth curl into a smile. “I said I’ll think about it, didn’t I?”

Steve lets his hands drop. “Yes, you did. I’m just reminding you that it’s an option. I know what you mean. When you talk about things HYDRA made you do, I get really fucking angry. And I know you feel guilty, and I tell you that you shouldn’t, and you disagree, and…” he trails off, shrugging. “I’m not a trained psychologist, okay? You’re my friend. The bad things that happen to you affect me, too, right?”

“Yeah, right back at you,” Bucky meets his gaze, now fully smiling. “I don’t blame you, it’s just-”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve pulls him in for a hug, squeezing tightly. “Just know I’m here. Till the end of the line,”

Bucky’s arms tighten around him. “Punk.” he whispers.

“Jerk.”

~~

“Fuck me, it’s hot,” Steve complains as they step out of the air-conditioned gym and into the suffocating humidity. “How is it still so hot? It’s practically October.”

“Climate change?” Bucky offers as they start walking home. “Anyway, I don’t mind it.”

“Really? Does the arm come with a built-in internal cooling system?”

The comment earns him an elbow to the ribs, and the barest hints of a smile on Bucky’s lips. “Okay, I know this is going to sound stupid, but-” 

Bucky stops walking, and Steve turns to face him, his expression one of surprise. “Buck?”

“If I can feel the heat, it means I’m not in that damned cryo chamber again.” Bucky says.

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Bucky trails off, directing his gaze elsewhere. “Sometimes I think I’m stuck in there, frozen, and all of this…” he says, gesturing the space between him and Steve with his hand, then sweeping it to indicate the space around them. “...is just a figment of my imagination.”

“Buck…”

“Like I said, it’s stupid.” Bucky shrugs. He scuffs one foot against the other nervously.

“It’s not stupid,” Steve slings his gym bag over his shoulder and steps forward, placing his hands on Bucky’s arms, grasping him by his biceps, both flesh and metal. “This is real. I’m real, and you’re here with me. I promise you.”

Bucky looks up and meets Steve’s gaze and offers him a small smile. “Thanks.”

Steve pats his arm once then lets his hands drop. “C’mon, let’s go home. I need a shower.”

They shower and change and head out again. Bucky says he’s starting to feel cooped up, spending most of his time at home, and that he needs to get himself a job where he doesn’t have to climb a tree with a sniper rifle.

Steve hums in response, considering. The train comes to a halt, and the doors slide open, with more passengers hopping on in the already too crowded carriage. Bucky shuffles closer to Steve, reaching out to hold on to a rail over Steve’s shoulder. Their faces are a hair’s breadth apart. If they were together, Steve would dip his head and kiss him, like he’s seen countless other couples do. 

“Hey there,” he says instead, smiling goofily.

Bucky grins back. “Hey yourself. Long time no see.”

“Oh, well,” Steve huffs, playing along. “Been busy. How are the kids? How’s Dot?”

Bucky squints. “Who the fuck is Dot?” he asks, dropping the act.

Steve presses his lips together to stop the laughter from bubbling out. He feels giddy for no other reason than the fact Bucky is _so_ close to him. “That girl you used to like, Dolores. You called her Dot.”

“Ohhhh,” Bucky chuckles. “Right, her. You know it was just an act, right?”

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We weren’t really dating. She needed a pretend boyfriend,” Bucky looks down at their feet, and in a quieter voice, adds, “And I suppose it helped me keep my cover, too.”

Steve is more confused than ever. “You’ve lost me, buddy.”

Bucky gives him an unreadable look, his grey-blue eyes boring into Steve’s own. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Steve, I-” Bucky’s interrupted when someone shoulders past him in their rush to get off the train, and he’s shoved even closer to Steve. Instinctively, Steve’s arm loops around his middle, steadying him, and Bucky smiles at him, and Steve’s heart flutters in his chest. 

“Let’s get somewhere less crowded, and I’ll tell you.”

They get off after four more stops, and Argo’s is a short walk from the station. Bucky grabs them a booth table while Steve goes up to the counter to place their order. His mind is going over what Bucky told him, and he thinks - maybe - he’s understood what Bucky was trying to say, but on the other hand, that could very well be wishful thinking on his part.

When they’ve both sat down with their coffees, Bucky draws in a long breath and says, “So.”

“Out with it,” Steve says, hoping he doesn’t sound as anxious as he feels. The incessant drumming of his fingers against his mug may be a giveaway, though.

“Okay.” Bucky looks down at his drink then up at Steve again. “Dot had a girlfriend. You knew her, she lived two doors down from our apartment - Alice Thompson?”

Steve nods. He remembers her. She’d brought them homemade cookies after his mom had died.

Bucky takes a sip of his coffee. “She told me one day, that her mom kept bugging her about finding a nice boy who’ll wanna marry her, and she said she’d heard from some guys that I was-” Bucky cuts himself off with a sigh. “How did you never realise this?”

Steve hangs his head. “You - you’re-”

“Gay? Yes.” Bucky’s expression softens. “I always thought I might tell you someday, but… I was a coward, I guess. Other times I thought maybe you knew but didn’t say anything, you know, save me the embarrassment.”

Steve breathes a sigh, a mixture of relief and frustration. There’s that cosmic irony again. It’s been a while since the Gods have had a laugh at his expense, so it’s a nice reminder that they’re still playing their cruel games. At least it offers some consistency to the chaos that is his life.

“I didn’t know,” Steve says finally. “But it doesn’t- it doesn’t change anything.” he says, because he thinks that’s what Bucky wants to hear.

It’s a huge fucking lie of course, because of course it changes things. Because now, the possibility of _them_ , Bucky and him, _together_ , is actually, well - within the _realm of possibility._ It feels _just_ out of reach, and once again Steve feels like he’s stretching his arm out as far as he can but catching only air. Of course, for the possibility to ever become reality, it would require him to open his mouth and _at least_ come out to Bucky; lay his cards out on the table, as it were.

Bucky smiles at him, looking relieved, and Steve draws in a breath, trying to scrounge up the courage to say the words, but he doesn’t get the chance.

A boy of about seven or eight years old, sat at the table next to theirs, has caught Bucky’s attention. The boy is openly staring at Bucky, eyes wide in wonder, while stuffing his chocolate chip cookie in his mouth. There’s a younger girl sat next to him, picking out the mini marshmallows from her hot chocolate and eating them one by one, and opposite them is their mother, cradling a baby boy in her arms and feeding him with a bottle.

Bucky smiles at the boy, and leans over, metal arm stretched out. “Hey kid, pull my finger.”

The boy hesitantly reaches out and grabs Bucky’s metal forefinger and tugs at it. Bucky blows a raspberry, and the boy starts laughing, and Bucky laughs with him.

The mother turns to them and offers a small, somewhat awkward smile, then turns to her son and tells him not to bother the nice man. The boy pouts and grabs another cookie, as if to console himself.

“It’s no bother,” Bucky tells her, but it’s rather clear he’s the one bothering her son. Bucky turns to Steve and his smile fades. He shrugs and drinks his coffee. 

Steve’s heart aches in a way he can’t explain. He wants to write, he realises; he wants to express his thoughts and feelings, which is a new and strange notion. Maybe therapy is helping after all.

“Did you want to go to the art shop?” Bucky asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. 

He buys a set of acrylic paints and a few flat canvas boards of different sizes, and a set of paintbrushes, then he wanders around the shop, browsing the books section, where he finds Bucky, flipping through the pages of what looks like a colouring book. The designs are intricate and beautiful. It’s supposed to help with anxiety, the cover says, and Bucky shrugs and decides to buy it, along with a set of felt tip markers the sales assistant recommends enthusiastically. 

They stop by the second-hand bookshop next door and Bucky buys as many books as he can fit into his backpack, which he had brought along for this very reason. Next is a department store which sells hugely discounted designer clothes where they spend an hour browsing aimlessly and buying only a new frying pan from the home section; they’ve already got more clothes than they know what to do with.

At the grocery shop, they stock up on sweet and savoury snacks, because their combined metabolism means they put away more food than should be humanly possible. They wander up and down the aisles, trying to decide what to make for dinner, until Bucky picks up a pepperoni pizza and says, “There. Done.”

Steve chuckles and says, “Good call,” and grabs a second pizza. 

They share a look when they’re at the check-out counter, which communicates _“Can you believe how much fucking money we’re spending on groceries?”_ and Steve smiles to himself. There’s no one else he could share this with. 

~~

Bucky is engrossed in his new colouring book when Steve leaves the house in the morning. Apparently, he’s finding it very calming, and the illustrations turn out even more beautiful with Bucky’s added colours in the blank spaces, and he looks just that little bit proud when he’s finished a page. 

Steve, on the other hand, has been feeling on-edge for the last 24 hours. Sleep had been damn near impossible, and his early morning run had only helped a little. Now he’s packed a bag, with the intention of spending a good two hours in the gym before he has to go meet his therapist for their weekly appointment. 

“Did you write much this week?” she asks him.

“I did.”

“Anything you’d like to share?”

Steve’s hands tighten around the notebook in his unwillingness to share its contents. He’d written about Bucky’s confession, and his cowardice in failing to reciprocate when the opportunity was right there in front of him. He’d written about how angry he was at himself, and his self-hatred, and how he’s a fucking hypocrite and a liar, because he tells himself he’s happy but he knows his heart longs for _more_ and how he wishes it would just stop and let go.

Steve clears his throat, hoping for his voice not to waver and betray him, and says, “Not really.”

“That’s okay,” she takes her seat on the armchair across from him and clicks her pen. “What should we talk about today, then?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Have you given the art lessons any more thought?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve nods. “I had a look online. There’s a lot of options. I’m not sure which way to go. Do you - do you have any advice for me?”

The doctor tilts her head, considering. “I’d say, find a school you like, and pay them a visit. They’ll be able to provide you with more information and answer your questions. Are you looking for some casual lessons to improve your technique, or do you want to work towards a qualification?”

“I, er,” Steve shrugs. “I’m not sure. I guess I just want to learn? I didn’t have many formal lessons when I was younger. I don’t even have a portfolio. A lot of the courses I looked at have that as a prerequisite.”

“Ooh, what happened with your request to get your old work returned to you?” she asks, looking genuinely interested. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m waiting to hear back. The woman I spoke to told me it would be a while before they had an answer for me, so I told her I’d call again.” Steve smiles. “I’ve called three times now.”

“Bureaucracy,” Dr Nazarian rolls her eyes. “You could get a private tutor to guide you through assembling a portfolio of your work. Then when you’re ready for the next step, you can have another look and see where you’d like to enrol.”

He nods. “That’s a good idea. Thanks.”

“There’s a lot of things you could do with a degree in Fine Art, to be honest, regardless what cynics might tell you. And I’m sure colleges and grad schools would be fighting over who gets Captain America enrolled in their school.” She grins. “Just something to think about.”

Steve inhales and exhales slowly. “I’m not sure-” he pauses to recollect his thoughts. “I don’t want any special treatment, and I know that sounds like a load of bullshit, but I don’t want to turn into one of those rich, entitled assholes I always hated.”

“Could you tell me more about that?”

He sighs. “My mom had this patient, a rich old woman whose son had an art studio in the Upper East Side, and offered lessons to children my age - I was about 11, 12 then, I think. Anyway, my mom showed her some of my drawings, and this woman loved them, and she said I should go to her son’s lessons. We couldn’t afford them, not on my mom’s salary, but she was - she was really generous, and my mom had helped her loads, ’cause she was in and out of the hospital all year, I guess she wanted to thank her for all her hard work.”

Steve pauses for a moment, his mind traveling back in time. He wasn’t allowed to go visit her, but he’d picked up a bunch of flowers and given them to his mom, asking her to pass them along to Mrs. Johnson.

“I went to the lessons, every Friday after school. The other kids in my class…they were a bunch of spoiled brats. They’d pull pranks on the teacher, and interrupt him when he was speaking, or they’d mess up the still life props when he wasn’t looking. It was like they didn’t care at all about being there, they weren’t there to learn. I couldn’t believe it. There I was, feeling like it was some kind of miracle I’d ever been given the chance to learn from a professional artist - all thanks to the kindness of that woman, but these kids… I don’t know. I could tell they were rich, spoiled little shits who couldn’t appreciate the opportunities they were given. I don’t want to be like them. These days, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, and all this fame that I never wanted. I don’t want this privilege. I don’t want to become the thing I used to hate, and I feel like I’m already halfway there.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “This appointment alone costs four times what Bucky and I used to pay in rent.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “If it helps, you wouldn’t be able to rent a _broom closet_ in New York for this price.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, I know. I just mean - I’ve been given _so much_ , and...”

“Do you feel like you don’t deserve it?”

He looks down at his hands. “No.”

“Why not?”

Steve shrugs. “There were so many soldiers I fought alongside in that war, and so many good men died right next to me, on the battlefield. When I died, they hailed me a national hero, and when I was found in the ice…” he trails off. “It’s just - I didn’t do anything different than any of them. They fought so that people could be free. I fought alongside them because I was finally able to. Where’s their fame and recognition? Are their kids and grandkids getting a big fat cheque every month? They put a display of the Howling Commandos in that museum, but what about every other soldier who sacrificed their lives? Did you know we lost over 400,000 men in that war?” 

She nods. 

Steve hangs his head. “I don’t think I’ve earned any of this. I try to give to charities that support veterans, but - it just doesn’t feel like enough. And again, I feel like - I’m just giving away my money to lessen my guilt about having it in the first place.”

Dr Nazarian looks troubled, and it worries him. 

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think you have a point. But it’s not your fault that this is how things are. I know there’s support systems in place to help veterans, but more often than not, it’s not enough. It’s one of the things that we need to improve on, as a nation.”

He nods. “I want to help, I just don’t know how.”

“First of all, can we take a moment to recognise what you’ve already done?” she gives him a small smile. “Donating money is no small thing. I am sure you’ve already helped out dozens of veterans without even realising it.”

“I guess,” he shrugs. 

“You have a friend who works at the VA in D.C., right? You could ask him how you can help.”

Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. He’d been reluctant about going to one of the group sessions, but he hadn’t thought about what help _he_ could offer. “I could volunteer there.” he says.

“Or somewhere more local to your neighbourhood?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice. “But I want us to work on this guilt you feel.”

“I know,” Steve sighs. “I know it’s not - I know I didn’t ask for any of this, and I shouldn’t feel bad for having it, because I know my younger self would’ve hit me over the head for feeling this way. I should be grateful. I know this.”

“Hey, then we’re halfway there.” She gives him a warm smile, which Steve reciprocates. “I’m serious. If you are able to recognise the logical side of things, it becomes easier to quiet down that voice in your head that brings these negative feelings.”

“Thank you,” Steve’s tone is sincere. 

He feels lighter when he starts making his way home, and it’s so different from the way he’d felt after his first session - disoriented and utterly drained. He checks his phone for messages and sees one from Bucky asking him to bring snacks, so he stops by the bodega in their neighbourhood and buys one of everything he knows Bucky likes, including those bacon-flavoured puffs that melt in your mouth. It is somewhat of a guilty pleasure for them both. 

When he opens the front door, the first thing he hears is a _’Shhhhhhhhhh!’_

“It’s just Steve,” Bucky’s voice says, and then calls out, louder, “Hey Stevie!”

Steve walks into the living room to see Bucky and Natasha sat opposite each other on the couch, which surprises him because the two of them aren’t known for getting along. There’s a pile of playing cards in the space between them, where Natasha is attempting to stack two in an upright triangle. 

“Hey Stevie,” Bucky says again, and looks over and grins at him. “Guess what. I’m Jesus’ brother.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Okay?” he turns to Natasha for answers. “What’s he on about?”

“We were looking up name meanings. Apparently Jesus had a brother named James, according to the Bible.” She shrugs. “Mine means Christmas Day,” she adds with a somewhat smug grin.

“Huh. What does Bucky mean?” Steve asks.

“Oh I know this one,” Natasha says, a hint of smile in her expression. “ _Bucky_ is the name of a person who has refused to age past the third grade.”

The joke is objectively not one of her best, but it makes Bucky burst into giggles, falling backwards on the couch and clutching his stomach. 

Watching him brings a smile to Steve’s face. “You alright there, pal?” he asks

“Bucky ate my brownies,” Natasha says, and Steve’s gaze is drawn to the half-empty container on the coffee table.

“Oh, nice,” Steve drops the bag of snacks he’s holding and reaches to grab one of the brownies, but Bucky jumps to his feet and knocks it out of his hands, shouting, “Noooooo!”

Steve looks at the floor, where his treat now lays next to his feet, and then up at Bucky. “What.”

“They’re pot brownies,” Natasha explains. “I brought them for you, but he had two while I was in the bathroom, so now he’s pretty baked. Hah.” she grins. “ _Baked._ Get it?”

“Aha,” Steve’s mouth curves into a smile, at last understanding. “And how many did you have?”

“I also had two, but I don’t have the tolerance of an eight-year-old.”

Bucky plops down on the sofa with a scoff, and it knocks Natasha’s card tower. The redhead glares at him and he pokes his tongue out at her, then turns to Steve. “Did you bring the snacks?”

Steve points at the bag on the floor and Bucky’s eyes widen as if he’s just seeing the bag. “Sweet!” he exclaims, making a grab for it. He starts munching on the bacon-flavoured puffs and thanks Steve in between mouthfuls, making no effort to cover his mouth. Steve shakes his head and smiles, amused. 

“How strong are these?” he asks, grabbing a new piece of brownie and taking a bite. The taste is undeniably different than regular brownies, and it makes him grimace.

“Pretty strong,” Natasha says, still busy trying to assemble her tower of cards. “But it takes a while to get in your system, so I wouldn’t have too many if I were you.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve sets the half-eaten cake down on the coffee table. He kicks off his shoes and curls up on the armchair. “Hey,” he says, reaching out with his foot to poke Bucky’s elbow. 

Bucky turns and smiles at him. “Hey,”

“How you doing?”

“I’m good. How _you_ doin?” Bucky asks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Steve huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Alright,” he mutters, looking away, and catches Natasha staring at him. “What?”

She shrugs, nonchalant. “Care for a game?” she asks, holding up the cards. 

“Sure,”

They settle on the floor, and Natasha shuffles the cards and starts handing them out. She explains the rules of Durak to him once again, after Steve sheepishly admits he’s forgotten how the game works, and they play a couple of rounds, with Bucky watching them from where he’s sprawled out on the couch. Natasha wins both rounds, and Bucky falls asleep with an empty chips packet on his chest. Steve lets his gaze linger on Bucky’s sleeping face for a moment too long, because when he brings his attention back to the cards Natasha’s played, he sees her staring at him again.

“What?” he asks again.

Natasha glances over at Bucky, then back at Steve, the look on her face knowing. “Nothing,” she says, tone even. “I’m starting to understand why you shot down everyone I suggested you ask out.”

“It’s not like that-”

Natasha gives him a look that shuts him up. Steve sighs, deflating. He stares at the cards in his hands to avoid her gaze. “Don’t tell him. Please.” he whispers.

“What kind of friend do you think I am?” she asks, a playful glint in her eye. 

Steve smiles. “Thanks.”

She nods and plays another card, and Steve gives up on the hope of ever beating her at this game.

~~

Sam hooks him up with his friend, Audrey, who works at the VA in Brooklyn, and Steve meets with her after one of the group sessions she runs. They get something to drink at the coffee shop across the street, and Steve asks for her advice on how he could get involved and help out. Audrey has a lot of ideas, and she moves her hands animatedly when she talks. Steve tries to write down some things in her notebook while he listens to her talk about the shortages in funding and manpower they have at the centre. She suggests he comes along to one of her group sessions, as a first step, and Steve finds himself agreeing, much to his own surprise. 

He shakes her hand and lets her get back to work, and then walks home with a spring in his step. _This is good_ , he thinks to himself, _I should’ve done this a long time ago._

When he gets home, he hangs up his key on the designated hook by the door and kicks off his shoes. 

“Buck, I’m home!” he calls out, expecting the usual response, but he gets nothing in return. Steve checks his phone to see if he had any missed calls or messages from Bucky, because he would usually let Steve know if he was heading out. 

There’s nothing. Steve calls out his name again, and this time Bucky responds, informing him he’s in Steve’s bedroom. Steve shrugs off his jacket and kicks off his shoes before heading over, but he stops dead in his tracks at the doorway to his bedroom. His heart sinks into his stomach, all the air knocked out of him. 

Bucky is sat on Steve’s bed, one leg tucked under the other, and in his hands is the notebook Steve used to write in - at first, it was lists of things people kept telling him, and the last few pages were his letters to Bucky. Panic rises inside him suddenly. He knows. _He knows._

“Buck?” Steve’s voice croaks, barely audible.

Bucky looks up and meets his gaze. “I was looking for your lists. Sorry. I don’t think I was meant to find these.” He says as he gently places the notebook on the bed, on top of the other one.

Steve swallows thickly. His heart is hammering in his chest, loud and frenzied. He feels as though his legs might give out at any given moment. “You read them?”

Bucky nods.

“Everything?”

Another nod. Steve closes his eyes. He feels sick. “Buck, I-” Steve opens his eyes when he hears movement, and suddenly Bucky’s in front of him. Steve holds his breath, bracing himself for Bucky’s reaction. He expects anger, or disgust, or betrayal - but there’s a softness in Bucky’s eyes he can’t understand.

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky mutters, almost to himself, and reaches out to cup Steve’s face in his hands, dipping his head and pressing his mouth to Steve’s. 

Steve’s body springs into action before his brain has had a chance to process what’s happening; he puts his hands on Bucky’s hips and pulls him close and kisses him back. Bucky makes a little noise against his mouth and Steve’s mind jump-starts and he realises this is not a dream he will wake up from, this is really happening; he’s really kissing Bucky.

He breaks the kiss and steps back, looking at Bucky in surprise. “What-”

“I love you, you idiot,” Bucky’s smiling and his eyes are shining. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

Steve gapes. He tries to say something but he can’t find the words. Laughter threatens to spills from his mouth. “Really?”

Bucky gives him that look that suggests Steve’s just said something stupid. “ _Yes_ , really.”

“I…”

“Were you never going to tell me?”

Steve shakes his head. “I couldn’t. Were _you_ ever going to tell me?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Bucky shrugs. “Alright, we’re both idiots. Can I kiss you again?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve exhales and Bucky’s mouth is on his in an instant. Steve’s hands come up to Bucky’s neck, then travel up to his hair, becoming tangled in his loose brown locks. His grasp might be tighter than necessary, but Bucky moans into the kiss so Steve figures it’s probably okay. Bucky puts his hands on Steve’s hips and guides him backwards until Steve’s back hits the wall. He breaks the kiss only for a moment, to catch his breath, before he lunges forward again. 

They’re both smiling when they break apart, breathless. 

“Not to ruin the moment or anything,” Bucky says. “But I’m starving.”

Steve laughs, the joy inside him uncontainable. “Yeah, me too. Have you had dinner?”

“No. I was gonna order something, but I couldn’t decide on what to watch, so I went to find your lists, figured maybe there’d be a suggestion there,” Bucky grins. “I’m so fucking glad I did that.”

Steve feels his cheeks heat up, and he looks down at Bucky’s hand, fiddling with a button of Steve’s flannel. They’re in each other’s space, though they’ve broken their embrace, and it feels familiar and comforting. Steve brings up a hand and cups Bucky’s cheek, his thumb caressing the rough stubble of his jaw. “Me too, pal.”

“You’re not mad?” Bucky asks, tone hopeful. 

“Mad?” Steve asks, incredulous. “Are you serious? Of course not. I’m _glad_ you found those notebooks. I never thought you would feel the same way, but now you _know_ , and you _do_ , and it’s like… Buck,” he sighs deeply. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this.”

Bucky nods. “Maybe I do. I’ve been carrying this torch since 1930-something,” he says, and extends his arm, curling his bicep like showing off the muscle. “How do you think I got these guns?”

It’s so terrible it makes Steve burst out in laughter. “Come on, jerk, let’s find some food.”

There’s some leftover pasta sauce in the fridge from Bucky’s cooking experiments the day before, and Steve puts a pot of water on the stove to cook the spaghetti while Bucky grates some pecorino. It feels like nothing’s changed, in the way they move around each other in the kitchen, but then Bucky slides up to him and puts his hands in the back pockets of Steve’s jeans and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, and suddenly, everything’s changed. 

Steve sighs, content. He spins around to face Bucky and asks, “Is this real?”

“Yeah,” Bucky hooks a finger in the ’V’ of Steve’s t-shirt and pulls him close to kiss him softly. “This is real,” he says, echoing Steve’s words to him only days ago. “I promise you.”

~~

There’s a faint smile playing on his lips as Steve slowly awakens, the last few images of the vivid dream he was having fading into nothingness as he opens his eyes. Bucky’s pressed against him, his nose at the nape of Steve’s neck, and an arm flung around Steve’s waist, clutching at his t-shirt. 

Steve breathes out a content sigh. He moves to lie on his back, but that doesn’t sit too well with Bucky, who grumbles and frowns, then immediately repositions himself, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve chuckles softly. “‘Morning sunshine,”

Bucky grunts. “No. More sleep.”

Steve doesn’t blame him. They’d stayed up too late the night before, but they're supposed to meet Sam and Natasha for brunch in an hour and a half. When he reminds Bucky of this, he gets another annoyed grunt in response. 

“Don’t be lazy,” Steve chastises him mockingly. He puts his hand on Bucky’s hip and nudges him gently so that he’s laid on his back, and Steve can climb over him as he pleases. He dips his head and softly presses his lips to Bucky’s, then nuzzles at the curve of his throat, pressing feather-light kisses as he goes. 

Bucky sighs, content. “Mm, I’m almost convinced.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve grins and nips at the spot just above Bucky’s collarbone. He balances himself on one arm and lets the other roam over Bucky’s body, a gentle caress across his chest and over his hips, down to his thighs and back up again. It’s so easy to turn him on, Steve thinks, but the rush of it doesn’t fade no matter how many times they’ve done this. 

They’d decided to keep things under wraps for a while, until they figured out if this thing between them works, but it became apparent pretty soon that it hardly changed anything. They still work out together, go out for dinner, binge back-to-back episodes of crime shows, and occasionally stay up until the early morning hours talking, and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Steve enrols in a series of adult beginner’s classes at The Art Studio NY, which take up his time most evenings. He starts painting with watercolours and oil, and pastels and ink, too, and eventually signs up for a digital art class provided through an online platform. His drawings from before the war were returned to him intact, and when he tells Dr Nazarian she cheers and says she’s glad he’s got them back. Over time, he started building a portfolio, often turning to Google for advice when he gets stuck. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he’s happy to be learning again. 

Bucky adopts a six-year-old Pomeranian mix named Eevee that he sees in a pen while he’s walking past the pet shop in their neighbourhood. There’s an adoption event, and apparently she’d been dropped off at the shelter three months ago when her owner had suddenly passed away. Bucky argues that he wasn’t gonna let an adorable dog like her just waste away at the shelter, and brings her up to Steve’s face to really drive his point home, asking, “How can you say no to this face, Steve? Are you completely devoid of emotion?” and Steve really can’t find it in him to disagree. All he can say is that they know nothing about caring for dogs, but then Bucky pulls out three books from his backpack and that’s the end of that. 

Eevee joins them for their morning runs, which eventually turn to walks because she can’t keep up with them. The vet tells them she’s in perfectly good health, but she’s starting to age and it might be wise to keep the exercise on the lighter side. It’s good, actually, because they walk hand in hand, with Eevee trotting ahead of them, often going up to strangers to say hello. It’s surprising how many people they end up making small talk with, where normally they’d walk past each other without so much as eye contact, because it is New York, after all.

Bucky eventually meets with a therapist - someone who comes recommended by Dr Nazarian and starts having regular sessions with them. Him and Steve schedule their appointments at the same time every week, and afterwards reward themselves with an extravagant meal at a nearby diner.

Steve starts hanging out at the VA, often spending time talking to the other vets after Audrey has wrapped up the group session. He hears their stories, and tells them a few of his own, some things that the history books might’ve left out, and the soldiers laugh and Steve laughs with them. Audrey introduces him to Patricia, who is in charge of Volunteer Recruitment. Through a series of meetings, they come up with a campaign to increase funding of the organisation, with appropriate governmental fund allocations and donations from the public. Captain America’s endorsement will be sure to raise awareness for the organisation, Patricia tells him. He creates a Twitter account, and gets himself verified, so he can post about it. One user’s nasty reply makes him launch into a full-scale, elaborate rant where he holds nothing back, and it causes an uproar and circulates around the internet for days to come. 

Bucky, upon seeing Steve’s thread, sighs in mock exasperation. “Maybe now they’ll understand what I have to deal with every single day.”

Steve pokes him in the ribs and snuggles closer to him. “I’ll have you know I’m a delight,” he murmurs sleepily, his head resting on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Of course you are, baby.” Bucky says, dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

They’ve been dating for almost six months now, and they finally decided to make their relationship known to their friends. Bucky is very determined about how they will relay this information to Sam, and Steve reluctantly agrees to go along with his stupid plan.

When they greet their friends and take their seats at the booth table, Bucky shoots him a wink and a knowing smile, and Steve groans internally. 

“Hey Sam,” Bucky says, a wicked grin on his face. “Guess what I did last night.”

“Oh no, I don’t like where this is headed.” Sam says.

“I got laid.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. “Kudos on the lingo, for one, however, and I can’t believe I’m asking this: by whom?”

Bucky waggles his eyebrows suggestively, the shit-eating grin still plastered on his face, and jerks his head towards Steve, sat next to him.

Sam turns to look at Steve, but Steve’s doing a very good job of hiding behind his newspaper, which he’d picked up for this very reason. He was _not_ on board with this plan.

Since he can’t get an answer from Steve, Sam turns to Bucky again, but his skepticism gives away to annoyance. “Quit yanking my chain, asshole.”

“I’m not yanking your anything,” Bucky says. “Hey, isn’t yanking a euphemism? Because if so, I _am_ yanking _Steve’s-”_

“For the love of God, Bucky.” Steve interrupts before Bucky can finish the sentence, swatting him with the newspaper. Bucky just laughs and bites into a blueberry muffin, and Steve rolls his eyes at him, and turns to see Sam and Natasha looking at them with matching expressions of curiousity and doubtfulness.

“Is he serious? Are you two…?” Sam asks, gesturing between the two of them.

“We are having the sex, yes.” Bucky nods.

Steve sighs, running a hand over his face. “For the record, I didn’t agree to this.” He clears his throat, fiddling with the sleeves of his brown leather jacket. “But yes. It’s true. We’re, um, together.”

Natasha, who had been quietly observing the conversation up until that point, chimes in with, “So, Steve. Who’s a better kisser, me or Barnes?”

Bucky’s head whips around and he looks at Steve with wide eyes. “Cheater!” he exclaims, drawing attention from the other patrons at the restaurant. Sam, on the other hand, is laughing at the pair.

“It wasn’t like that!” Steve starts to protest, acting on instinct. He sighs. “Really, Nat?”

She shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, showing her amusement at the reaction her revelation has elicited.

“We were on the run from HYDRA and had to keep our cover from being blown.” Steve pats Bucky’s arm jokingly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “Like I’ll believe that. I’m provoking your dick privileges until there’s a ring on my finger.”

Sam breathes out a heavy sigh and turns to the redhead on his left. “Hey, Nat, do me a favour and help me break them up?”

She smiles at him, her expression one of fond exasperation. “C’mon, Sam, don’t be a grouch,” she tilts her head to one side, and then gasps as a thought occurs to her. “I just realised something. No one at this table is straight.”

Bucky huffs. “Thank God for that.”

  
  


* * *

1 Argo's is a fictional bakery from the B99 universe. It was founded in 1910, according to Boyle.

2 I don't pretend to understand the complexities of Steve's super-serum metabolism, or cannabis tolerance, but I figured if he can't get drunk, he should at least be able to get high. The guy needs a break. Also, this thread seems to agree: <https://bit.ly/30mElWw>

3 Tony knows about his parents’ murder, because there's no way he wouldn't have known after Natasha dumped all over Shields/Hydras secrets on the internet (in ca:tws). It's just another plot hole in ca:cw bc the russos aint shit

4 The film they’re watching is Overboard (2018) with Anna Farris and Eugenio Derbez

**Author's Note:**

> massive shoutout to @martelldoran on tumblr for helping me out so much with this fic! and to @enby-klaus for reading it through for me!
> 
> please let me know what you thought of this dumb story (:  
> come say hi on tumblr! im @steveandbucky


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